


The Fortunate Son

by NicoPony



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, American Politics, Awkward Romance, Child Abuse, Clones, Corporate Espionage, Explicit Language, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative, Racist Language, Roman Catholicism, Sexist Language, Stereotypes, Time Travel, Violation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 234,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoPony/pseuds/NicoPony
Summary: Post-AvX Gambit gives his own brand of superheroics a try only to find himself at the center of some unwanted attention. Matters get complicated when a tres jolie fille comes to Gambit looking for protection. Meanwhile in the past, 15-yr-old Remy joins forces with a trusted partner in crime-himself! Time-travel, politics, clones, family drama, and religion too!
Kudos: 7





	1. An Unusual Occurance

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes: This story takes place immediately after the AvX event and departs from there. Knowledge of the AvX storyline, specifically Gillen's Uncanny X-Men, as well as Liu's run on X-23 would be beneficial to your understanding. Stars the cast of X-Men, as well as a smattering of other Marvel characters. Warning: story contains religion, politics, unwanted pregnancy, corporate greed, time-travel, clones, sexual situations, language, non-linear story-telling, run-on sentences. Use of sexist, ableist, racist, classist language, and racial generalizations/stereotypes are POVs of the characters and not that of the author. Mild references to sexual abuse, violation, and child abuse.
> 
> I started this story back in 2012. Cast your memories back eight years. Different President. Different Supreme Court Justices. Different Daily Show host. Same-sex couples were not recognized as being legally married. Justin Bieber was still relevant. Just keep that all in mind when you read this. I haven't read a comic book in six years, so I have zero idea what's going on in the books now.

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, 26 Years Ago**

_"Welcome to the Medical Center of Louisiana...Where the Unusual Occurs and Miracles Happen."_

The doctor glanced disdainfully at the stainless steel letters set into the marble wall. In his world there were no such things as miracles. Fortune, luck, chance; these words were not part of his vocabulary. The doctor was not a man to leave anything to happenstance. A carefully placed seed had been planted, a germ of an idea. That seed had been nurtured and grew into an interconnected ever-spreading plant. That plant had borne its first fruit. Tonight the man would reap what he had sown.

The seed, a whispered word, had taken root in the ears of powerful men. One of those powerful men had now called upon the doctor to prune the rot, the mutation, that otherwise spoiled his perfect garden. Doctor Essex, otherwise known amongst the evolved as Sinister, was glad to learn of the child with strange red eyes born to the esteemed gentleman from the State of Louisiana. The information of the baby's birth was followed with a generous donation to the government-sponsored project overseen by Sinister himself along with the inherent suggestion: _make the child disappear_. Documents had been signed transferring the infant to his new guardian; Sinister had come to claim the child for himself.

Sinister passed through the building's lobby and stepped into an elevator. He rode it upwards through the quaintly outdated hospital that served, in his not-humble opinion, the very dregs of humanity. A soft chime announced his arrival at the maternity ward. As he stepped from the lift he spied a few dim-witted humans moving vapidly about their business; a dull-faced nurse blinking sleepily at her computer terminal and a slouching long-haired janitor shuffling down the corridor with a toolbox in hand. Sinister dismissed them and strode towards the nursery, his footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor.

With a twist of his telekinetic powers he opened the secured door to the nursery and entered the room. His eyes scanned the empty cradles. Sinister's brows momentarily came together in consternation. The room was empty. He returned to the corridor and approached the nurses' station.

"The infant –," he began as he came to stand before the nurse. She looked up at him with a distant expression on her face, her eyes glazed. Sinister probed the woman's mind with his telepathic powers. The birth of a red-eyed child should have been at the forefront of her thoughts, but Sinister found no trace of the baby in her mind. Someone had tampered with the nurse's memories. Sinister's hand tightened into a fist. He began to stride after the figure he had spied earlier, the janitor who had disappeared into one of the rooms. Sinister found the room empty. Sinister whirled away from the doorway. In the distance, he could hear the tiny cry of a newborn. He made towards the sound and pushed open a hospital room door. A curtain fell across the center of the room, shielding the inhabitants within from view. Sinister drew back the curtain to see a young mother beginning to stir from where she lay on the hospital bed. The cradle nearby contained a squalling infant. Sinister regarded the child for a moment. Seeing nothing remarkable about the baby, he turned and left the room just as the mother called out a soft inquiry from behind him.

Someone had taken the infant, Sinister was sure. Someone had beaten him to his prize. But who? No one would have known about the child, the child's father would have gone to great pains to hide his secret. Sinister calmed his temper. No one could hide a red-eyed boy for very long. And even if it were possible it would only be a matter of time before Sinister's equipment, adopted or otherwise appropriated from Shi'ar, Celestial, and native Earth technology, spoke to the manifestation of a powerful mutant child. Already knowing who the mutant in question would someday become, Sinister knew he wouldn't have to look far afield from this sad excuse for a medical facility to find the child. He would just have to be patient.

From somewhere to Sinister's left came the sharp click of metal on metal. Sinister failed to notice the figure that detached itself from the shadowed corner. The slight figure dressed in loose-fitted and strangely archaic clothing moved into the wash of dim light. His long white hair fell over his face as he regarded something in his palm: a gold pocket watch. He snapped it shut with a final click.

The Witness watched Sinister depart, a wry smirk on his face. In a dry rasp of a voice The Witness said: "And just a minute too late."

* * *

Next time: A date with the Devil.


	2. Taking The Plunge

New York City, New York

The Past, Yesterday

The scuff of a booted foot on gravel signaled the presence of the unwanted guest. Gambit turned his head slightly towards the source of the sound, knowing it had been made purposefully so that he would not be startled by the new arrival. Catching a glimpse of the man standing over his shoulder, Gambit's mouth momentarily pressed into a grim line. The Devil had appeared, standing just close enough so as to not seem an immediate threat, but within reach should Gambit decide to do something drastic and irrational.

"Awful far from your usual stompin' grounds, ain't you?" Gambit asked, his tone dry. "Hell's dat-a way," he said and pointed downward to the street far below. Gambit resented the other's undesired presence, this intrusion on his plans. Gambit was seated with his shoulders slouched, hair falling forward over his face. Beside him on the concrete ledge were three playing cards lying face down so the familiar red Bicycle Standard deck pattern was shown.

"I heard there was a jumper," the Devil responded. He stood with legs apart, knees slightly bent, his weight falling on the balls of his feet as if readying himself to face an opponent across a boxing ring. The Devil held his arms loosely to his sides, attempting to look casual. One hand held a thick folder of documents. Gambit ignored him, and turned over one of the cards and regarded it. The Devil couldn't see what had captivated the thief's attention.

"You oughta get your ears checked, _Diable_ ," Gambit said. His hands moved to wrap around the neck of a bottle he clutched between his thighs. "I think you _heard_ wrong."

Gambit was seated on the cement ledge of the building's rooftop; it was night and the twinkling city of New York lay before him like an open jewelry box. It was almost as if he could reach out and wrap his arms around it, take it all in one last greedy embrace.

The Devil cocked his head to the side and the corner of his lip twitched. "I assure you, my hearing is excellent," the Devil responded.

"Well, consider yourself _misinformed_ then," Gambit responded, making no secret of his irritation. "Wouldn't be de first time." Gambit adjusted his seat on the roof's edge to lean forward and glance at the street below. He then turned over a second playing card and looked at it.

"About that...," the Devil began reluctantly. "I wanted to apologize. To you."

Now the thief tilted his head as if he had misheard, tapping his right ear with his forefinger. Gambit turned to fully regard the Devil with his bright red eyes, bringing his left leg to extend even further over the empty expanse before him. "Beg pardon?" Gambit asked, genuinely perplexed.

_Who needs their hearing checked now?_ The Devil had to bite back his words. The Devil sighed to himself, a slow inhalation and exhalation of breath. It galled him to have to admit to this person, this arrogant, cocky thief that he had been in the wrong. But under current circumstances, it seemed necessary. And the Devil felt rather guilty for the role he had played in this whole affair; as if he didn't have enough to feel remorseful about.

"I said," the Devil began, carefully annunciating his words, "that I apologize."

The sounds of traffic drifted on the mildly warm updraft from the streets below, catching Gambit's hair and lifting it back from his face for a moment. Two of the cards at Gambit's side rose up and fluttered away into the night, the past and the present, leaving one card behind. Above, wisps of clouds scudded across the deep navy sky. The open air was an invitation beneath Gambit's dangling legs. Gambit turned away from the Devil to look back at the city once more. He drummed his heels against the side of the building as his hands worked at the neck of the bottle, rocking the cork in its throat back and forth.

"Hm. An apology," Gambit finally said and his hands stilled on the bottle. "Well, now I've heard everything."

The Devil put a hand on his hip. "I understand what you must be going through. Trust me, I can relate. However, speaking from experience, I feel I should warn you before you decide to do anything else stupid."

"You're just sore at me for _hornin_ ' in on your turf," Gambit quipped, his tone glib.

"Har dee har," the Devil responded, and touched one of the horns on his head with a fingertip. He then shifted the folder of documents from one hand to the other. "Listen. I have something for you–."

Gambit lifted the last card, the one that hadn't blown away. He looked at it for a long moment. "Do you know what this means?" he asked.

The Devil hesitated. He faced forward, his head turned towards the card Gambit held aloft. "No," he finally said. "What does it mean?"

Gambit tapped the card's edge against the concrete. "Some say it's de card of death. But them's the glass-half-empty types," Gambit replied. He had resumed his focus on the city beyond, his eyes taking a long, slow journey up and down the street below.

"What do _you_ say it is?" the Devil asked.

"It means an ending," Gambit responded.

"Death is a pretty definitive ending," the Devil said and slowly took a step forward.

Gambit quirked a brow at him. "Really? And here I pegged you for a believer. What about de hereafter? Life after death?"

The Devil stilled. "I didn't come up here to talk...about that, Gambit."

Gambit laughed ruefully and shook his head. "Afraid of what awaits in de great beyond, _Diable_? I'm not. For every ending there's a new beginning," he said and glanced at the documents in the Devil's hand. "And it don't pay to look back, only forward."

The Devil held out the documents. "In this instance, you might consider taking a quick glance backward."

"Would it make any difference if I did? Would it change anything?" Gambit asked.

"Maybe. But I thought you should at least be given the choice."

Gambit regarded the files with trepidation. "I...think I want some time t'think about it."

The Devil was somewhat reassured by this.

Gambit resumed his ministrations on the cork. "...Forty days and forty nights," Gambit continued. "Lookin' forward to this." The bottle let out a muffled pop and the cork flew out into the open expanse before him.

"Whoops," Gambit said watching the cork fall away. "Lost control there...how embarrassin'. Supposed t'sound like de fart of a satisfied woman when it opens."

"It's 'sigh', Gambit, not fart," the Devil said drolly.

"I've been doin' it wrong all dis time...?" Gambit mused.

"And forty days isn't so long to be falling off the wagon already," the Devil continued.

"I ain't on no wagon. It was my penitence," Gambit said. "No gumbo, go-go, or do-do."

The Devil had no idea what that meant. He also didn't ask for an elaboration as he had a hard enough time understanding what the thief was saying even at the best of times.

"Gave up my vices," Gambit elaborated. "I've been good."

"Really?" the Devil replied, unable to conceal the disbelief in his voice.

"Would you believe I gave it all up for Lent?" Gambit asked.

"No," the Devil responded in deadpan fashion, though he could tell Gambit was telling the truth. The Devil also believed that the thief had taken leave of his senses, if he'd had any to begin with.

The Devil heard Gambit's sigh, the cluck of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Be nice if someone believed me just de one time. What'd you give up, _Diable_?"

Taken aback, the Devil paused and reconsidered the thief before him. "Wha—what? Oh...oh, you're serious. I'm, ah...Coffee," he finally said.

Gambit made a tsk-ing sound and shook his head regretfully. "You lightweight," he told the Devil.

The Devil had half a mind to shove the Cajun off the rooftop when the thief stood abruptly, bottle in hand, toes overhanging the edge of the building.

"What are you doing?" the Devil asked as he began to move forward.

"Celebratin' new beginnings," Gambit said, his arms held outstretched to his sides. In one hand was the bottle, thick glass with a heavy bottom. The other hand held the card.

"You're going to hurt yourself," the Devil told him.

Gambit laughed. "I'm a glutton for punishment," Gambit said over his shoulder to the Devil, right before he plunged forward off the roof.

* * *

Next time: Gambit gets out of bed.


	3. An Empty Box

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester New York**

**The Past, Seven Weeks Ago**

Remy LeBeau was ready to pull himself out of bed sometime after nine o'clock; closer to ten o'clock, really. He hadn't forgotten to set his alarm clock. In a fit of pique the night previous he had decided to never again be shocked into alertness by the sound of the alarm's persistent blare. He had yanked the offensive device from the wall by its cord and then tossed the clock out the open window. He had triggered an explosive charge in the clock and it had detonated somewhere out over the lawn. Remy was resolved that the next time he climbed out from under the covers, it would be because he was good and ready to face the day.

He slowly lifted his head from beneath the bundle of warm blankets, his bedroom blessedly dark due to light-blocking shades on the windows. He could hear the muted sounds of footsteps and voices from the ground floor below. Classes at The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning were well underway. It was Tuesday, after all. Remy had no intention of joining the throngs of students and teachers. Though he'd spent a good deal of time in bed, he hadn't slept at all. Remy was preoccupied; his thoughts turning over and over in his head like the cogs of a clock.

Remy had spent the last few weeks breaking down his plan into small, accomplishable goals. It was unlike him, this careful planning. But for now he preferred his carefully constructed thoughts for the future over confronting the tumultuous reality of the present. Today was the day he'd marked as the deadline, the day of execution. The final part of his plan included finishing cleaning out his room.

His room was usually maintained in a state of entropic organization, where the detritus of the everyday disseminated itself about his living quarters. His room used to be littered with papers, packs of playing cards, dog-eared paperback books, and baubles that amused him. He'd tacked things onto the walls, marring the otherwise pristine surface with holes. But over the last few weeks he discretely began removing the clutter. At first it was just a few things here and there that meant very little to him. Then he'd started pulling down the pictures, the posters, and the photographs, then touching up those little dimpled holes left behind in the paint and plaster. Anything that still had some use left in it was packed up and picked up by AMVETS. Looking at the cleared desk and the white walls made Remy feel better, a little lighter maybe. So it continued. He ruthlessly culled the contents of his room, removing all things extraneous. It was time for one last survey around the room before it was done, sweeping out the corners and taking the last of it away.

This was going to be a whole new experience for him. He wasn't going to leave anything else up to chance anymore. He wasn't going to follow the whims of his heart or make decisions based on gut instinct. That approach had failed him time and time again. Maybe it was time, past time, to start using his brain for once. He would be embarking on a new lifestyle, but today there was still time for one last wild, noisy, chaotic hurrah; a goodbye to life as he knew it.

Remy shuffled over to the window and drew up the shades by their cord. He grimaced at the scene beyond the window. Outside was another cold, dreary New England day one could expect of early February. He doubted he could ever grow accustomed to days like today, where the bare black tree limbs stabbed up into a bleak gray-white sky. Here and there, clumps of dirty snow sat in the flattened yellow grass and fenced either side of the drive where it had been shoveled over the winter months. A chill rain smattered the window. In Salem Center, New York, it would be a miracle if the temperatures climbed past forty. In New Orleans, there would be sixty-degree temperatures, sun, bougainvillea and Jessamine in bloom, daffodils and pansies and salvia.

Remy stared out at the lawn, scanning the landscape. Beneath a distant oak, he thought he spotted a small flash of color. It was a bit of bright yellow; an early crocus perhaps? The sight gave him a brief hint of hope until the wind caught that scrap of yellow and sent it skittering across the dead leaves. It was a late-slip from the school, nothing but trash discarded by one of the less obedient students.

He released the cord and let the shade drop back into place plunging the room once more into darkness. Remy flicked on the desk lamp which created a small circle of light. The glow spotlighted his laptop, his current partner in crime. He then moved to his closet and opened the doors. Most of the hangers were empty save for the one with his coat. Another held a pair of jeans that would complement one of the two remaining shirts he had left. He held the shirt to his nose to see if it passed the sniff-test. Maybe one more day of wear, he concluded. If anyone had noticed he'd been wearing the same ensemble day after day these last two weeks, they hadn't thought to comment. It would have been nice to have remained in the background and have continued to go unnoticed a few weeks ago. The way he preferred things to be.

Remy pulled his mostly clean shirt over his head and then tugged up his jeans. He slipped his hands through the arms of his jacket and settled it onto his shoulders. His duffel bag was at the bottom of the closet. He removed the bag from the closet and sat it on the unmade bed. The laptop was unplugged and nestled inside the duffel bag which was then re-zipped. As an afterthought, he stood on his toes and swept a hand over the upper shelf of the open closet. His fingers came in contact with something tucked into the far back corner. Surprised to have found anything, he reached up and with the tips of his fingers, tugged the item to the shelf's ledge. It was a box. As he pulled the box forward he could hear the contents inside shift around. Once in his hand, Remy recognized the old cigar box he'd hidden away since moving back into the school after its grand reopening. Remy took the box down and walked back to the bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress with the box on his knees. He ran his hand over the box's lid before flicking it open.

There was a mix of random ephemera inside the box. Remy reached out to grasp the top of the nearby metal wastebasket and draw it closer to the bed. At the bottom of the box was a sheaf of papers that had been folded over three times. It was a thickly folded packet of legal documents; the beginning and the end of a marriage that never was. He wasn't sure why he'd retained the documents or if he even should. He let the papers slowly charge in his hand and then let the packet drop into the wastebasket. The charge began to eat away at the paper. He could see the flicker of light on the insides of the wastebasket as the documents began to disintegrate into ash. Returning to the box, Remy picked up the next item. It was a photograph of a dark-skinned girl with platinum-blond locks of hair. The girl was mugging for the camera, lighthearted and laughing. He hadn't seen that girl in a long time, his Stormy. But she hadn't really been a girl at all to begin with. The photo followed the documents into the bin. A bent and faded playing card stared up at him from the interior of the box. It was the Queen of Hearts, her visage bloated and swollen from water-damage. Remy had destroyed so many playing cards in his life. This one had nearly destroyed him. He flicked the card into the bin where it hit the side of the metal can with a hollow sound before joining the other fragments of paper. A lady's glove was cast from the box, as were a few hand-written letters. Remy didn't watch them burn, but only continued to peruse the box for more items to be rid of. His fingers found a few strings of beads. Those he would need later, so he pocketed them.

Last in the box was a velvet pouch. When his fingers made contact with it, he felt a sudden shock of memory so strong he withdrew his hand as if burned. He was overcome by a strange feeling of deja-vu. It was followed by a feeling that something was missing, that he'd lost something important. He shook his head slowly in an attempt to dispel the strange dreamlike sensation. He knew without looking what the bag contained; a ring, a three stone diamond ring. A classic and elegant piece of jewelry meant for a classic and elegant girl. Remy wondered why he still had it, why he hadn't hocked it after all this time. With hesitation, he put the ring into his coat pocket with the same trepidation as if he'd just held one of his own charged cards against his heart. He considered tossing the empty box into the wastebasket as well, but then set it on top of his duffel bag.

With his final task completed, he shouldered his duffel bag and stepped out into the hall. Remy took one last glance at the empty room, then let the door close behind him.

* * *

Next time: Gambit makes a sandwich! ;-)


	4. The Closed Door

Stark Tower, New York City, New York

The Past, Ten Weeks Ago

When God was divvying out mutant powers, Gambit felt he must have been misdirected to the wrong queue. Converting the potential energy of any object to explosive kinetic energy was not a skill a thief could really use. Having glowing red eyes which drew unnecessary attention to oneself was also something of a detriment when you were trying to remain inconspicuous. It made the Thieves Guild rule against tattoos, piercings, and acquiring other _identifiable physical characteristics_ somewhat moot in Gambit's case. Either God had an ironic sense of humor when he gave Gambit his powers, or He was trying to tell Gambit something. As if having His instructions on what "thou shalt not" do carved out in stone, re: point number seven, wasn't explicit enough.

What Gambit wanted right now was to be gifted with the power of invisibility. Such a power was wasted on a woman like Sue Storm who should remain very visible at all times, in Gambit's opinion. Would that he could trade powers with the Invisible Woman now. Gambit could usually count on his fellow X-Men to ignore him. He'd embraced his role as a minor player, where he often went overlooked. But there was an Avenger looking at him now. That made him nervous. This whole situation made him nervous.

_I'm invisible. I'm not here,_ Gambit thought as he stared upward into space, assuming an expression of boredom while gnawing on a toothpick. _Pay no attention to the man in the trench coat._

They were gathered together in a large conference room, or that is what the room would have been called if they were at The Jean Grey School. Gambit supposed a better word for this place would be The War Room, because this wasn't any school but Avenger headquarters. Several of his compeers were seated around the table while others stood. Storm was seated with her spine ramrod straight, hands folded before her on the table. Rogue was also seated, her back to Gambit. He couldn't see her expression. Captain America and Wolverine stood, vying for command of the room. Gambit was slouching in the corner with his arms crossed and not looking at anyone, like a student who didn't know the answer to a question and was praying not to be called on during class. There was a disagreement amongst those gathered and everyone had voiced their opinion. Gambit wanted no part of it.

"Have you nothing to say?" Captain America pointedly asked, his tone accusatory. Gambit was somewhat stunned to realize the question had been posed to him. Gambit looked at Storm, eyebrows raised, silently pleading with her to _do something._ Storm focused her eyes on Gambit, pinning him to the wall with her gaze. No help there; she seemed to expect him to respond to the question.

"I'm not de one on trial here," Gambit snarked. Rogue's shoulders stiffened. Gambit noted that Cannonball rolled his eyes behind his goggles, his expression conveying that he had expected no better response from the thief. Gambit returned Cannonball's clear disdain with a wry smirk. It spared Gambit from having to look at any Avengers, their swanky digs, or remind himself that he was in way over his head.

Wolverine's hands gripped the back of an empty chair. His eyes flashed and his expression was grim as he focused on Captain America. "We _were_ having a discussion."

"I was taking the rest of your team into consideration," was the Avenger's reply. "Everyone else has had their say."

Wolverine gave Cap an incredulous look. "Oh, well, go right on ahead and see if you'll get a coherent answer out of him. Don't say I didn't warn ya."

"Gambit, please provide your perspective in this situation," Storm said. Gambit knew for a fact nobody gave a damn about his perspective but for whatever reason, Storm was calling him out. Gambit wasn't going to be forced to participate; he had no horse in this race.

"I choose to abstain," Gambit answered flippantly and waved his hand in dismissal.

"Is that an option?" Marvel Girl said, her tone bitter. If Gambit wanted to say anything, it would be to show sympathy for Rachel Grey. Considering whom they were arguing about, it wasn't fair for them to force her to voice an opinion either.

"According t'de Board of Education of de state of New York, abstinence is de only guarantee t'keep yo'self out of trouble," Gambit responded. "At least that's what I've been instructed t'teach."

"I told you so," Wolverine told Cap.

Wolverine was staring daggers at him. It seemed the man's go-to solution to a problem was to stab it. Was there nothing or no one he wouldn't impale on those claws: teammates, teenage girls, and enemies alike?

"If you do not wish to contribute, perhaps you should go," Storm told him. Gambit looked at her gratefully, but she did not return his glance. She seemed to be angry with him.

"Well, if I've got your permission then..," Gambit disengaged himself from the wall and strode out of the conference room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the bob of Rogue's ponytail as she turned to look over her shoulder at him. Gambit continued from the room without a glance in her direction.

It seemed like an eternity had passed since he'd been in a situation very similar to this one, gathered in a room with his fellow X-Men debating the fate of another mutant. That time hadn't included any damn Avengers however. And the mutant in question had been Mystique and that shape-shifting coquette had had a personal vendetta against him.* He might have preferred that situation over this one, though his memories of that time were lost in a haze of anxiety, fear, and anger. At least back then they were keeping their troubles within the family and not making a federal case out of it. This time they were _literally_ making a federal case out of it.

Gambit had chosen to abstain because he was not going to stand on any kind of jury, or be forced into any kind of judgmental hypocrisy.

Instead, Gambit was going to go make a sandwich.

This place did have a kitchen, and Gambit had an uncanny sense about food and how to find it. He had the sandwich on a plate alongside a smallish green apple and the cheese crackers he'd found in the back of the pantry. There were several levels below-ground. He took the elevator down to the lowest level and stepped off into the hall. It was dimly lit, the walls smooth and featureless, the flooring utilitarian and nondescript. Despite the generic surroundings, the corridor felt somehow familiar. He hesitated for a moment, his footsteps slowing as he acclimated to the strange sensation that he'd been here before. Gambit shook off the feeling and continued down the hall.

When he came to a closed door he stopped. He held the plate in his left and put his right hand to the smooth black surface of the lock beside the door, allowing his palm and fingerprints to be scanned. He saw the readout on the screen spell out a name in red digital letters and the door emitted a short beep. There must have been some error with the system because it wasn't Gambit's name, but someone else's. He smiled. Later, Gambit would have to go into the security system and purge any record of the scan, the recordings of the cameras no doubt focused on the door, and erase any sign that he'd been here.

The door before him hissed open.

"Knock, knock," he said with false lightheartedness. "Mind if I come in?"

Cyclops was seated on the thin pad of a mattress set on the cot bolted to the floor. He had his back against the wall of the holding cell, arms folded loosely across his chest. He regarded Gambit without expression.

"I suppose I couldn't stop you," Cyclops responded with no inflection in his voice.

Gambit lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "A man's entitled t'de privacy of his own thoughts if nothin' else. I'll have de courtesy to not intrude on yours and go if you want. I did bring you a sandwich though, in case you're hungry."

"You didn't have to do that." Gambit took that to mean that Cyclops didn't _want_ him to have done it.

No, Gambit didn't have to do anything for Cyclops. Nor did he want to, just like he didn't want to speak on Cyclops' behalf in the conference room either; to defend him or accuse him. But Gambit didn't say anything about that. Cyclops rose and took the offered plate, returned to the cot and sat it down beside him. Cyclops palmed the apple, but did not move to eat it.

"How did you get in here?" Cyclops asked. He had an excellent poker face. It was probably a good thing that Gambit had never played a game of Texas Hold'em with the man.

"There's an oversight in de security system. Probably should talk t'Stark about that," Gambit responded. He continued: "They're all up there jabbering on like monkeys in a tree. Been at it for a while yet."

Cyclops asked: "Why are you here, then? Shouldn't you be with them?"

"Didn't see any need t'be. I don't really see as I have anything to say in de matter."

Cyclops considered him a moment. "What makes you say that?"

Gambit offered a lopsided grin. "Enh, who cares what dis Cajun thinks anyhow? And besides, feelin' a bit out of my element." This was only partially true. The whole truth was that Gambit knew Wolverine hated anyone getting a voice in a situation when he wanted complete control over it. Especially when Gambit had a contrary opinion. Wolverine would see it as nothing but a challenge to his authority. Everyone was going to have to go along with what Wolverine decided anyway or risk fragmenting the teams even further. Gambit added: "This is bigger than de X-Men, what wit' Avengers involved. A whole national or global issue 'r somethin'."

Cyclops frowned at him. "It's that kind of thinking that keep mutants on the fringes of society, Gambit. That left us on the sidelines."

"Preferred when our dirty laundry weren't aired for de world t'see, y'might say," Gambit replied, leaning his shoulder up against the open doorjamb. "I liked it better when things were on a more personal, human level." He held his hand out with his palm down, as if to lower the severity of the situation with a gesture.

"This goes beyond the confines of Wolverine's schoolyard. It was past time we had a global presence and the power to make a real difference. That we took control of the situation and were responsible for our own destiny," Cyclops told him.

Gambit continued: "So I guess you got what you were after, then. Except the 'control' part." He paused for a moment considering the man before him. He thought Cyclops' words sounded rehearsed, like a politician's canned speech. Though unlike a politician, Cyclops had the conviction of a true believer behind his words.

"I don't understand why you are here, Gambit," Cyclops told him. Gambit had to give the guy credit, he never once looked away. Cyclops focused his gaze directly on his visitor even through those strange goggles they'd outfitted him with to keep his optic-blast powers at bay.

"We talkin' ' _here_ ' as in me standin' in front of you now?" Gambit asked. "Or like, metaphysically?"

Cyclops exhaled. If he were an impatient man, it might have been a sigh.

"Y'know, de reason I never stayed on with your Utopia...I never did see myself as any part of some kinda super-squad," Gambit told him. "I don't aim to be a hero."

"Then what is it you aspire to be, Gambit? You seem to have chosen a life shirking responsibilities. Ignoring any kind of potential you might have had." Gambit really didn't take offense to Cyclops' words; it was hard to when they were true.

"Those kind of responsibilities come with some serious consequences. Made enough mistakes on my own that others have had to pay for. Don't want anybody else to have to suffer for my shortcomings," Gambit replied. He chose not to point out that his former leader had once abandoned his first wife and child, and then betrayed the second. This wasn't something Gambit felt he could really criticize Cyclops for, having left and betrayed his own wife, BellaDonna. Furthermore, Cyclops wasn't talking about responsibility on a personal level, but a very public global one. Cyclops never could see the forest for the trees.

"If you'd faced up to your shortcomings instead of hiding—," Cyclops began, then shook his head slightly. "If you'd made different decisions. Taken ownership of the power you'd been given."

"I never wanted it, much less asked for that kind of power."

"You never aspired to be anything other than a thief," Cyclops responded with flat finality.

"Maybe if your foster father'd been more of a regular criminal-type rather than a power-hungry psycho who took advantage of a teenaged kid, you might've took a shine to it," Gambit said. "A little 'B and E,' a touch of larceny here and there..."

Cyclops frowned then. It was a small expression Gambit might have missed if he hadn't been watching Cyclops so carefully. Gambit wondered if he might have struck a chord with Cyclops, talking about the foster father that had forced a teenage Scott Summers to commit crimes.** Gambit wondered if Cyclops could see the very thin line that separated them, if he was making any kind of connection at all.

Gambit tilted his head and gave Cyclops a considering stare, and then pointed at him. "Safe cracking, I bet," Gambit concluded. "You've got de patience for it. Me, not so much. Not wit' my daddy hangin' over my shoulder watchin' my every move."

"A father should want his son to aspire for more. To succeed where he failed," Cyclops told Gambit.

Gambit paused, momentarily struck with the thought that Cyclops perceived his father to be a failure. He felt a flash of anger then. "I don't think you and me are talkin' about de same thing, _mon copain_. My father gave me de learning I needed to survive."

"I learned on my own what was required for our survival," Cyclops told him.

Until now, Gambit had allowed his expression to remain open and engaging. He felt the muscles in his face freeze into an expression not unlike Cyclops'. "I didn't come down here t'talk mutant politics, or listen t'you try to defend what you did. I was here tryin' t'talk to you like a person," Gambit said. "Because I thought maybe the two of us could relate. Forgive my mistake."

Cyclops never did offer an apology of his own. In the end, Gambit had to let the door close behind him.

* * *

*See X-Men #171-174

**See Uncanny X-Men #39-42

_mon copain_ – my friend/pal/mate

In Roman Catholicism, the seventh commandment is Thou Shalt Not Steal. I understand it's different in other faiths.


	5. Time Out

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester New York**

**The Past, Seven Weeks Ago**

Remy regretted trying to draw a parallel between himself and Scott. Scott probably didn't appreciate the comparison either. Remy knew about having a power that got out of hand. He understood about wanting to be in control. He also could relate to aligning yourself with someone, or in Scott's case–some _thing_ –in spite of your misgivings. Maybe you didn't _know_ –but could suspect that things might go horribly wrong. Remy had once repaid a debt to Sinister in exchange for having his powers under control. Scott had become a host for a cosmic force like the Phoenix to remake the globe. You could think you were doing the right thing, and in spite of your best intentions you ended up hurting people...killing people–inadvertently.

The difference lay in that Remy never felt justification for his actions, only regret. Scott had sacrificed his humanity as a way to save mutant-kind...and felt vindicated. Scott was a leader first; a leader of mutants. Remy, on the other hand, would follow if lead, but he refused to be pushed or dragged along. Remy could also lead, but he would not make demands or issue orders. And he never defined himself as a mutant first; it was just an added feature to the overall package. Furthermore, if Remy had been presented with an open door to freedom, he would have bolted through it and not looked back. Scott was going to sit in that cell and take responsibility, even though Remy had practically laid out the red carpet as an open invitation for Scott to make a break for it.

A break was exactly what Remy wanted. Nothing else had been so clear to him in a long, long time. Now that he'd cleared out his room, he decided to make his way to the cafeteria. He wasn't particularly hungry, at least not for what the school cafeteria had to offer, but massive food consumption was a requirement for the day. After stopping by his empty office to drop off his duffel bag, he proceeded to the cafeteria. It was early; too early for the students' first lunch period, but there were a few staff members getting their food before the onslaught of hungry teenagers ravaged the place. Remy took up a tray and slid it along the silver bars along the front of the lunch counter.

"Hey, Jo," Remy said, grinning at the woman behind the protective sneeze-guard barrier. Joanna Cargill stood there, her arms folded across the spattered apron she wore over her uniform. She returned Remy's grin with a deep scowl. "What's de special?" he asked.

"How about a big helping of 'fuck you,' with a side of my boot up your ass?" she asked, her gaze narrowing on him.

Remy assumed an expression of mock surprise. "Now, is that any way to treat a payin' customer?" he asked her.

"Don't even think I don't know you changed the schedule, Gambit," she hissed as she leaned forward over the glass barrier that separated them.

Remy shook his head, his eyes wide. "Well, y'know that's impossible," he told her. "I don't have any control over de schedule. Kitty's de one who manages all that. And I certainly don't have de access rights to change anything in her account!"

"I have Tuesdays off. It was supposed to be your turn to cook," Joanna pointed her finger at him accusingly. "You little sneak thief–!"

"I think I'll have a cheeseburger," Remy informed her affably. "Actually, a double cheeseburger. And them tater tot things. All of them!"

Joanna grumbled and slapped together his order without really looking at how the burger was assembled. She dispensed it haphazardly onto a plate and dumped the entire basket of tater tots from the fryer on top of the burger. "Here, eat! And I hope you choke!" She shoved the plate towards him over the top of the counter and several tots took a tumble onto his tray.

"Why, thank you Joanna. I'll come back later for dessert," he told her. "If I don't see you then, well it's been a real treat seein' you anyhow."

"Get the hell away from me before I rearrange your face," Joanna told him and resumed her defensive stance behind the counter.

Remy found a seat at an empty table and sat with his overflowing tray. Surveying the contents of his plate, he realized he'd forgotten the ketchup and there was no bottle in the center of the table. He was about to stand and retrieve one from the utensil station when he spotted Ororo making her way towards him. She couldn't quite come straight for him as there were several tables and chairs in her way, but she was definitely striding towards him with purpose. At a loss, Remy realized there really was no way to avoid her now that she'd established eye contact.

"Remy," she said as she approached to stand over him. "It seems we have not had the opportunity to speak of late."

"Uhm, yeah," Remy replied, one hand on the table, the other braced on the back of his chair. He was still halfway between sitting and standing, hovering just over his seat. "I guess we haven't really run into each other. I, ah–I'm just gonna–."

Ororo sat down in the adjacent chair to his left and Remy reluctantly resumed his seat. "I wonder that you might be avoiding me," she stated, her expression implacable, her gaze direct.

Remy's eyes darted over to the condiments on the utensil stand. "Avoiding you?" Remy repeated absently. He had actually been doing just that for the last two weeks. He was mildly surprised Ororo had noticed, given that he'd hardly seen her for the better part of the past year. And often when he regarded her, he felt as if he were looking at a perfect stranger. "Not avoiding you. I'm just going t'go get some ketchup." He moved to stand again.

"I am speaking in earnest," she told him and put a hand to his arm to forestall his leaving.

"Me too. I take my condiments very seriously," he replied as he continued to stare at the condiments. If he had telekinetic powers, he could retrieve the Hunt's and the Frank's Hot Sauce.

"I wondered if you had given any further consideration to assuming a role as a part of our team," Ororo continued.

Remy let out a sigh that was half groan as he wilted back into his chair.

Ororo continued to observe him carefully. "I gauge by your reaction you are unwilling to provide an answer."

"I gave you my answer. Sorry it's not de one you wanted t'hear," he told her.

"I believed after we had last spoken you might reconsider," she said. "That you were willing to put more thought into a decision."

"I told you de first time–."

"The first time I suggested you might take on a larger part in mutant affairs you responded with no consideration at all."

"'Hell, no' was my answer then," Remy informed her. "I could simplify it to just 'no' now if you prefer."

She regarded him gravely. "You could offer so much more, Gambit, if you would be willing to take on more responsibility. I do believe that you are more than capable."

"Well, Stormy, I appreciate de sentiment," he said. "But I am still de guy you met back when you was a pup and me a thief, and other than you bein' a big girl now, nothin' else has changed."

"You are lying not only to me, but to yourself as well," she informed him.

Remy continued: "I can't think of a single circumstance that would make me want t'represent mutant-kind much less be some kinda mutant cop or an Avenger."

"And I am sure Rogue felt a similar reluctance to accepting a role as an– ," Ororo began.

Gambit cut her off by raising his hand. He'd had enough. He was tired of being pushed, pressured, bullied, and guilted. "What does Rogers think dis is, some kinda mutant bargain basement? Buy two mutants, get de third f'r free? I ain't goin' along wit' dis just 'cause you or Rogue–!" He stopped himself mid-sentence. "Just let me be–!"

"Hey! Joanna said you took all the tots!" Bobby Drake announced as he clattered his tray down onto the table in front of Remy.

"Robert," Ororo leveled her gaze at Bobby. "Remy and I are having a discussion. If you would please give us a moment."

"Yeah, Bobby. Get lost. We were about to start our survivors of failed marriages counsel session," Remy told Bobby as he stood over the table.

"Geez, Remy. Insensitive much?" Bobby asked, casting an awkward sidelong glance at Ororo.

"What?" he muttered. "Not like someone died at her wedding." Remy reached across the table and grasped the handful of ketchup packets from Bobby's tray. Remy had twice now offered Ororo his support in regard to her estrangement with Black Panther. The first time she changed the subject onto, in her terms, were more important matters, the second time he'd been coldly rebuffed.

"Give me some of those," Bobby pointed at Remy's pile of tater tots as he pulled out a chair, the chair legs squealing across the floor.

"Fuck off, Bobby, these're mine!" Remy said, putting his arms protectively around his tray.

"Gambit. Your language is inappropriate," Ororo began.

"You can't possibly eat all of those!" Bobby interrupted and sat.

"Watch me!" Remy retorted and shoved several tater tots into his mouth.

Ororo took a calming breath. "I do believe Robert is correct. You will make yourself ill." She regarded his food tray with some distaste. Remy lifted his cheeseburger to his mouth and took a large bite, chewing it with gusto.

"Mmm," he told her, even though in truth it wasn't a very good burger. "So tell me, Stormy. Have you and T'Challa–."

Ororo set her hand firmly down onto the tabletop and rose. "I can see you are not up for a serious discussion. Today of all days I should have known not to have approached you. Perhaps tomorrow would be better."

"Perhaps never would be best," Remy said around his mouthful while slapping Bobby's interloping hand away from his plate. Bobby returned the slap and Remy was forced to put down his burger to retaliate. Ororo shook her head tiredly and departed. Both men were now grappling over the table when Kitty Pryde's head appeared between their two lunch trays.

"Gambit!" her disembodied head yelled up at him. "You're in _big_ trouble!"

" _Now_ what?" he asked her head.

Kitty rose to stand between Bobby and Remy, her body phased halfway through the tabletop. "You _cheated_ ," she told him, "on your test."

"What test–," Remy began, then said: "Oh right, that test."

Kitty pointed an accusing finger at him. "There is no way–no way–you took that test. Tell me what you did. Did you _pay_ someone to take the test for you?"

"What makes you say that?" Remy asked in what he hoped was an innocent fashion.

"Because according to the scores, you got every answer right!"

"Hey, I guess I'm pretty smart," Remy said with delighted surprise.

"Hey, I guess you're pretty stupid if you think I'm going to believe that. Next time, get someone who at least has the sense to answer a _few_ questions wrong to make it look believable!" Kitty affirmed.

Remy considered this, his tongue pressed to the inside of his lower lip as he thought. "That little jerk Quire set me up."

"Oh! I knew it! What did you do to get him to go along with it? Bribery or blackmail?" Kitty harangued him.

"I won't divulge what was a private business transaction," Remy told her. "And what if I hadn't cheated then, enh? Wouldn't your face've been red if I'd actually done good?"

Kitty said: "Remy, you misspelled the word 'spaghetti' on last week's menu board! I know for a fact you wouldn't have aced the grammar section of that test."

"'Spaghetti' wouldn't be on de test, Kitty!" Remy sassed her. "It ain't even a English word so it don't hardly count!"

Kitty lowered her head to pinch the bridge of her nose and groaned audibly. "Oh, for the love of–. You can't even _speak_ English!"

Bobby leaned around Kitty to look at Remy. "What test?"

Kitty put her hands on her hips. "His high school equivalency test, that's what test!" she announced.

"Wait...you don't have your G.E.D.?" Bobby asked Remy incredulously.

"Why is this such a big deal?" Remy shrugged. "I've made it along just fine wit'out it. I don't need t'take no stupid test!"

"We're a state-accredited school and you're going to have the documentation showing you've had an education," Kitty told Remy.

"You wanted documentation, I got you documentation," Remy retorted.

"You're going to obtain it through legal means, Remy. So go sharpen your number-two pencils. You're going to take this test on Saturday morning at seven a.m. the old-fashioned way!" With that, Kitty walked out from the center of the table and headed towards the lunch line.

"I won't be here, Kitty!" Remy yelled at her back. "I already put in my vacation notice two weeks ago!"

"You should've thought about that before you cheated!" she shouted back over her shoulder.

"Then I quit!" Remy called.

"Yeah, right!" Kitty snapped.

"I can't believe you don't have your G.E.D.," Bobby repeated, his mouth full of tater tots.

Remy picked up one of his tots to find it cold. The fried potatoes were in fact fused together with ice. With a grunt of disgust he thrust his tray at Bobby, causing Bobby's drink to slosh over the contents of his plate.

"Hey!" Bobby said with outrage.

"Remy," said a quiet voice to his right. There was a faint plaintive tone to it he did not like in the least.

"No!" Remy said to Rachel Grey.

"You didn't even hear what I had to ask you yet!" she said, her jaw jutting out. She had taken the chair to his right and was holding a thick packet of paperwork.

"Whatever it is, de answer is 'no'!" Remy told her. "That's de only answer I've got!"

"I checked the schedule, Remy, and you're the only one who's free all afternoon," Rachel said. "I need your help in this next period class, and you need to show up!"

"What class is that?" Remy asked.

"Paige's life drawing class," Rachel said. "We need a sub."

"And just what is it I'm supposed t'do in a drawing class?" he asked her.

"Well there was supposed to be a model scheduled...," Rachel said and began flipping through the pages of the class syllabus.

"No, no way. Nope," Remy said, waving her away. "No."

"It's not that big a deal!" Rachel said hotly. "All you have to do is just stand there."

"You _are_ pretty good at that, Gambit," Bobby said as he cut off the piece of his grilled cheese sandwich that wasn't covered in cola.

Absently, Remy threw a frozen tot at Bobby's head. "I ain't posin' in your class. Find someone else."

"I told you there isn't anyone else. Everyone else is busy...except you." Rachel pointed her forefinger at Remy's chest and gave him a poke.

"Hey, I'll tell you what," Bobby said as he picked fried potato from his hair. "I'll stand in for the model if Remy takes my sixth period study hall monitor duties."

Rachel waved her hands and rolled her eyes. "Fine! Whatever! I'll see you next period." She stood from the chair and began to depart.

"So should I strip down to my skivvies before I get there...?" Bobby called after her.

"No!" Rachel shouted. "For pete's sake, keep your clothes on! I don't need you fueling the fire. These kids are little monsters as it is already!"

"I didn't agree–," Remy protested then glowered at Bobby who was crunching on frozen tots.

"Looks like it's not your day, Remy LeBeau," Bobby told him.

~ oOo ~

Post-lunch study hall was an exercise in futility. The majority of the students would have either lapsed into food-induced comas or be riding a sugar high a country mile long. Remy kept to the back of the classroom waiting out the clock. Several students were tossing little balls of wadded-up paper into the open and drooling mouth of Santo Vaccarro, who was asleep. Two girls were passing a note back and forth and giggling. Another student was sharing a vulgar sketch he'd made in life drawing class. Remy was grateful he wasn't the subject. For the most part, he left them to their own diversions as long as they didn't interfere with the one or two students that were actually using the time to study. One such pupil was Idie Oya, who was just then about to be poked in the back by Quentin Quire. Remy took up the white board eraser and chucked it at the back of Quire's head.

When Quire turned around to fare Remy with a glare of derision, Remy just shook his head in a silent but threatening 'no.' Quire seemed to get the point because he slouched back into his chair. Quire was a nuisance and a menace, and Remy didn't mind setting the kid up as a pointer when Kitty had accused Remy of cheating. Kitty didn't need to know that it was Remy who had hacked into the testing system and changed the scores. That was just the beginning, practice for the big game. So was changing the school's lunchroom schedule, which was child's play compared to what he found at Stark Tower. He was certain he was ready for the big leagues now.

Remy resumed his attendance on the clock. He had never received a formal education, but if he had it likely would have been a horrible experience. If not for the threat of physical violence, Remy would not have managed to keep his seat during Catechism lessons. A few whacks to the knuckles delivered by militant nuns had convinced him to behave. Now as an adult he found his days were eked out in fifty-five minute increments, summoned by a bell from one room to another, day in and day out for five days a week. He was a prisoner of the clock. Remy looked over his young charges, the fellow convicts that were lulled into a feeling of security by routine and monotony. He realized he was missing one of the inmates; he had an escapee on his hands. The last thing he needed now was to get into more trouble by losing one of the students. Quietly, he slipped out of the classroom. Given that the students typically paid him no mind even when he was in the same room, it was unlikely that they'd get too crazy before he returned. They wouldn't risk the freedom they enjoyed while under Remy's very lax guardianship.

Remy headed towards the girls' lavatory which he'd come to learn was the hideout of unhappy teenage girls the world over. There wasn't a week that went by without him finding one of them sitting in a stall sobbing into wads of toilet paper. What calamity would it be this week? An argument amongst friends, catty girls and their rumors? Maybe raging hormonal imbalances? No, very likely it was "boy trouble."

He pushed open the swinging door to the restroom and called out: "Hey, you'd best come out now." He couldn't hear or see her, she was hiding herself. "Don't make me come in after you," he added.

There was a shuffling noise then a flush of a toilet. One of the stalls opened and a girl stepped out. She tried to give him a reproachful look, but it was lost in the glaze of unshed tears in her eyes and the way the corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably.

"Rude," she informed him as she attempted to pass him through the open door.

As she brushed past him he lightly took her arm. She stiffened at his touch. "Come with me," he told her and gently guided her down the hall.

Remy's office was barely more than a cubby hole hidden just around the corner from the laundry room. It was well away from the regular flow of foot traffic, overly warm from the constant hum of the commercial dryers on the opposite side of the wall, and smelled pleasantly of detergent. It was just big enough for a pair of chairs and a desk. He directed the girl to one of the chairs and handed her a handkerchief from one of his inside coat pockets.

"You want t'have yourself a good cry, you can come in here. Way more private," he told her. "It's too easy t'find you in de girls' lav. And I don't recommend de roof either. Too many people 'round here can fly."

The girl continued to look at him resentfully but eventually lowered her head and wiped her eyes with the folded cloth. She likely saw no reason to respect him as a teacher, and certainly not as an X-Man. Still, he could remember what it was like to be a teenager. You were old enough to think and decide and act for yourself, but not mature enough to handle the consequences. Remy remembered the feeling of impotence, resentment, and powerlessness as adults made the decisions that ruled his life in spite of wanting to find his own way. If he had it to do over, to be a teenager again, he wouldn't. He leaned himself back against the desk and watched the girl for a moment.

"You okay, _ma chère_?" he asked.

"I am not your _chère_ ," she replied testily.

He held up his hands in a form of surrender. "All right. Just askin' if you wanted t'talk."

"Why?" she challenged. "So you can tell me everything is going to be alright? Because it's not. Obviously."

Remy shook his head. "I won't lie. Does seem like things are a right mess, don't it?"

The girl's lips pressed tightly together, holding back a flood of emotion. "This isn't how I thought it would be."

"You and me both, petite. You're not alone in your thinkin'."

She drew a deep breath and then another, struggling to forestall her tears. She failed and covered her face with the handkerchief. "I am," she said, her voice muffled.

"You're what?"

"Alone."

Remy considered the crying girl for a moment. Until this point, she probably had never spent a moment alone in her life, not even in her own head. She had always had a loving family, supportive friends, teaching from a good instructor, the admiration of more than a few people.

"Is that so bad? Bein' alone?" Remy asked her.

She looked up at him. "Of course," she said as if there could be no other truth.

"Why? You'll never be more yourself then when you're alone. Once you get comfortable in your own company, you get to feelin' less lonely," he told her.

The girl wiped her face with her palm. "I–I don't...how long will it take?" she finally asked.

"It's not a prison sentence. I dunno how long. I figured it out earlier on. Got a head start, me. Some ways it's easier when you're on your own," he told her.

"How? How can it be easier? If you don't have anyone else to share...it all," she made a sweeping gesture with her hand, "if you don't have anyone, a friend, to help you with... _things_?"

"Well, for one you don't have anyone makin' demands on you. You've got de freedom to do as you please without livin' up to others' expectations. When you're on your own, the only person you have t'disappoint is yourself."

The corners of her mouth turned down, her expression grew bleak.

"I guess I give pretty bad advice, _enh_?" he asked her.

"I disappointed myself already," she told him and one fat tear rolled down the curve of her cheek. "I did something stupid."

Remy had his arms crossed low over his stomach, waiting patiently for her to continue. Blotches of red were forming on the fair skin of her face and neck. She took several moments to collect herself again.

"I think I might be pregnant," she finally said. "I'm–I'm late."

Inwardly, Remy heaved a sigh. Externally, he kept his expression and tone of voice neutral. "How late?" he asked.

She blushed red to the roots of her hair. "I don't–I don't know." She hid her face in her hands, mortified.

"Relax, _petite_ ," he told her. "It's been a rough coupla weeks. So you lost track. Just take a few breaths now. It's not de end of de world."

"What am I going to do?" she moaned into her hands.

"Well, for one you're gonna have t'take a test," he replied. "No cheating."

Remy imagined if anyone saw him, a teacher from The Jean Grey School, taking a teenage girl to a pharmacy to pick up a pregnancy test, it would probably look rather bad. But the girl had refused to consult Doctor McCoy.

"I can't talk to _him_ ," she wailed shrilly when he offered to walk her down to the clinic.

"I take it you didn't use protection," Remy asked her on the drive into town.

"We didn't have any," she mumbled. She stared into her lap where her hands were clasped, fingers twisting together. "It just kind of happened."

"Y'know, it's your boyfriend who should be takin' some share of responsibility," he informed her. "Does he know about dis?"

She shook her head, her hair falling over her face and hiding her expression from view. "No. Because it–because I wasn't with my boyfriend. I was with someone else."

_Aïe, aïe...bon sang_ , Remy thought to himself.

This was not how Remy imagined spending his afternoon. This afternoon was supposed to involve consuming copious amounts of carbohydrates and liquor, smoking a pack or two of cigarettes, a lot of dancing, and wringing enjoyment out of every addiction he possessed. Not sitting in a diner passing a glass of water to the girl seated in the booth across from him.

"Drink up," he told her.

She reluctantly leaned forward and sipped from the straw, her arms down at her sides, hands in her lap. Remy was momentarily struck with how young she really was. The little handbag she carried had cartoon daisies printed on it and an unopened pregnancy test inside it. When she left for the restroom, Remy took out his phone and composed a text message, then sent it. He drank his coffee while waiting for a response.

The girl finally returned and slid back into the booth. Now her face was white.

"What's de verdict?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm not," she breathed.

_Praise the Lord,_ Remy thought. He had no idea what the implications of her getting pregnant would be, what kind of complications would have occurred.

"You're going to have t'talk to a doctor," Remy said.

"No!" she shook her head, her red hair swinging around her jawline.

Remy held up a hand. "No arguments. If you're missing your period then there could be something wrong. I made you an appointment with a doctor–."

Her face had flushed again at the word 'period.' Remy wanted to roll his eyes. "A lady doctor," he concluded. "Doctor Reyes. She'll come see you tomorrow."

The girl's shoulders relaxed somewhat.

"You're probably overstressed," Remy said and put some dollar bills down onto the tabletop. "I'll take you back to de school and you go straight t'your room and get some rest. I'll write you an absence slip up."

The pair left the diner, the bell announcing their departure. "Thank you, Professor LeBeau," she said quietly as they returned to Remy's car.

He turned to her. "Just Remy's fine," he told her. He opened the car door for her and she slid into the passenger seat. When he joined her inside the car he turned to her again. "And next time, don't mess around wit'out protection."

Her lips pressed into a line. "There won't _be_ a next time," she said firmly.

"That bad, hunh?" he asked and started the vehicle.

"Horrible," she intoned grimly. "I just wanted...I wanted to not feel...alone. You probably think I'm pretty stupid."

"Lissen, _chère_. Bad decisions don't make you a bad person," he glanced over at her. "People make mistakes. It's repeating them that makes you stupid. And I speak with some authority on that matter. Maybe you can learn from yours."

She was quiet while they drove back to the school. When the car passed through the open gates she turned and said: "I'm sorry."

"What for, _chère_?"

"When I first got here, I thought–I thought you must be a bad person. Because I heard that you were a thief. I shouldn't have judged you. You didn't judge me. You didn't have to help me like you did."

He smiled at her as he put the car into park in front of the school. "Here's another thing I'll learn you about me, ma chère," he began, "I never could resist a damsel in distress."

Remy reached behind to the backseat where his duffel bag sat on the floor. He picked up the empty cigar box and sat it on the girl's lap. "Here," he told her. "You can put your condoms, cigs, and weed in dis."

She held the box and laughed. For a moment her tired face was beautifully transformed. "Thanks, Professor," she said wryly.

"'Remy,' remember?" he said. "I'll see you after de holiday, yeah?"

"The holiday...oh? You mean after spring break?" she asked, her expression fell into disappointment. "That's a ways away."

"I need some alone time, me," he told her and lightly touched the top of her head. "Give it a try."

She nodded, opened the car door and stepped out of the vehicle. Leaning down into the car she said: "Bye...Remy."

He gave her a small wave. "You be a good girl now, Jean.*"

* * *

*All New X-Men #1

Aïe, aïe – exclamation of dismay/empathy

bon sang – good grief, for goodness sake


	6. Lemons into Lemonade

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, Eleven Years Ago**

"It's too cold," Remy complained while slouching further into the passenger seat's worn upholstery.

"Have another swig of bourbon," his cousin told him. "That'll warm you up." Cousin Emil was in the driver's seat of the old Buick, which bounced over poorly maintained asphalt down back country roads.

Remy had already rinsed his mouth out twice now with the cheap bourbon Emil had lifted from behind the counter of a seedy bar; stolen from the bottom shelf while no one was looking. The bottle sat half-empty on the floor between Remy's feet, the liquid sloshing back and forth inside. The alcohol sat sourly in his stomach and had done little to improve Remy's mood. To make matters worse, his braces had only been tightened the day before and his entire face ached. Remy stared at the ghost of his reflection in the passenger-side window while rubbing his jaw. The view beyond the glass was nothing but inky blackness.

"We had fun last year, remember?" Emil said hopefully, attempting to continue the conversation.

Last year, Remy thought. Last year, there were three of them. This year, there were only two. The car hit a pothole and Remy braced himself with a hand to the vehicle's ceiling to prevent himself from being launched from his seat. Last year, the car had been full with the sounds of his younger cousin's endless litany of complaints from the backseat, off-key singing, traded insults, and shouts of surprise as Emil veered back and forth across lanes down empty stretches of road. But that was last year, back when the car's suspension wasn't so bad and his younger cousin Etienne had still been alive.

"Maybe some music will cheer you up!" Emil said and cranked the volume knob to the right.

Remy pressed a hand to his ear and reached out to silence the stereo. "I have a headache," Remy told his cousin.

Emil gave an exaggerated sigh. "There'll be a bonfire. You like fire. At the very least, you can think of it as another venue to sulk in. A change of scenery."

Remy really would have liked a change of scenery. He wanted to be locked in his room with a book in hand. He wanted to disappear into a story and appear somewhere else, preferably on a space station bound for Jupiter with a sentient computer his only company. Not driving out into the back country to crash a party with the obnoxious Emil Lapin.

They spotted the bonfire from the road. Various vehicles were parked haphazardly in the grass. They could see figures silhouetted by the firelight. Emil steered his car off into the gravel berm and then onto the rutted grass. He threw the car into park before braking and Remy was thrown forward.

"Here we are!" Emil announced happily. "Grab de booze. Let's go join de fun!"

Emil bounded from the vehicle and slammed the car door closed behind him. Remy sat in the car for a moment, hearing muffled music beat against the car windows, and the sounds of voices raised in laughter. A bonfire haloed the gathering of teens in an orange glow. Remy reached down and picked up the bottle, then opened the car door and wearily climbed from the vehicle. Remy slogged across the grass after his cousin, who was already greeting the other party-goers with his usual enthusiasm. Remy resented his cousin's boundless cheerfulness. Enough so that two weeks ago he'd actually punched Emil so hard he'd sprained his own wrist. Remy didn't understand why Emil insisted on pestering him, into forcing him to come to this party. He didn't understand why Emil thought being completely engulfed in the company of others would somehow fix things. Everything was just the same, nothing was fixed. All this noise and light was just a distraction.

Remy dropped the bourbon to clatter against the other assembled bottles of liquor inside the large feed trough turned ice bucket. He fished a beer out from the melting ice and dried the bottle and his cold hand on the hem of his jacket. He then followed the sound of his cousin's laughing voice. Remy knew a few of the people gathered here from previous parties. Some were family members, mingling with the rest of the partygoers, the regular folk. Many were kids from some of the more affluent schools in the city. Emil liked going to their parties because they brought a better quality of liquor. Remy looked at his beer before twisting off the cap; glass bottles, not cans.

_Oh la la_ , Remy thought with sarcasm. _Très de luxe._

He angled himself through the clusters of people gathered around the fire to make his way nearest to the flames. Remy joined Emil who had found a group of girls to entertain.

"Enh, _mes belles_ , dis my cousin Remy," Emil told them and seized Remy's arm to draw him closer to their little group. "He's forgotten how t'have a good time."

Remy fared his cousin with a put-upon gaze.

"Y'see," Emil said, gesturing at Remy as if he were on display. "Mebbe that dark brooding look works on de goth girls, but on _tres jolies filles_ such as these–." The trio of girls Emil referenced were clustered close together, bottles of flavored malt liquor in their hands. They were underdressed for the chill February night air and huddled close to the fire. They each gave Remy an appraising glance.

"Hey," said one of the girls, "aren't you...?" She looked to her friends for affirmation. " _Le Diable Blanc_?"

Remy looked into the fire and pulled a drink from his beer bottle.

"You're not gonna make too many friends wit' dat sour puss of yours, mon frère," Emil told him while grinning at the girl who'd spoken.

Just then, Remy heard a familiar laugh carry over the other voices and the music. Remy flinched as if expecting a blow. He pulled his arm from his cousin's grip and turned away from the girls.

"Hey, cuz, where you goin'?" Emil asked after him.

"Same place you're gonna go with dese girls," Remy mumbled in response, not caring if Emil heard him or not. " _Nowhere_."

Remy wove through the crowd, keeping his head down and watching his feet as he paced through the furrowed field grass. He didn't want to be seen here. Not by anyone he knew, and especially not by _her_.

"Eh, LeBeau, I'm surprised to see you show your pretty little face here," a voice called.

Too late, Remy thought. He'd been spotted. A figure purposefully stepped into his path. Remy looked up to see one of his older cousins sneering down at him.

"Why de glum face?" Richard said and reached out a hand to grasp Remy's chin. "Smile, cher. We at a party!"

Remy jerked his head back, not wanting to be touched. Richard knew what he was doing. He grinned at Remy cruelly. "Aw, you still smartin' from de trip to de dentist's chair, _petit chou_?"

"Fuck off," Remy muttered before putting the bottle of beer back to his lips. He turned to glance back towards Emil, hoping to look nonchalant.

"What's dat you say?" Richard asked, pantomiming deafness by cupping his hand to his ear. "Can't hardly make out a word you say, mush mouth. Hey, I seen your girl foolin' 'round wit' another boy over there."

Remy stared at his older cousin blankly, refusing to respond.

Richard was overly pleased with himself. "Some boy from Saint Vincent's. Thomas somethin'-or-other. Football player, I hear." He then mimed throwing a football. "Reckon he'll score tonight?"

Remy couldn't help himself. He turned to look for the face that matched that familiar laugh. It wasn't hard to spot Belle's bright blond hair, reflecting orangey-red in the firelight.

Richard wasn't finished. "What's a-matter, Remy? Girl's just gettin' her kicks in before she's saddled wit' you for de rest of her life."

Belle saw Remy, he knew she did because her eyes flicked over in his direction before she turned back to the clique of admirers that surrounded her. Belle flashed her perfect smile and tossed her hair at the boy to her right. Remy turned his attention back to his cousin.

"So de girl's a slut. And an assassin besides. Still better than you could hope for, enh, devil-eyes?" Richard taunted.

For a moment, Remy thought about smashing his half-empty beer bottle across his cousin's face; to give in to the rage that swelled inside him like the ballooning explosion of an atom bomb. He adjusted his hand on the neck of the bottle.

Just then, a hand encircled Remy's narrow wrist with a firm grip.

"What's dis?" Emil said, his devil-may-care grin affixed on his face. "Hey, it's Dickie! All's we missin' is a bottle of our Ton Ton's 'shine and a much shallower gene pool and we'd be having us a reg'ler family reunion!"

Richard gave Emil a disgusted look. "It's _Ree-char_ ," he snapped. "Call me Dickie again, Rabbit, and I'll find a hole to stick your head down."

" _Re-tard_ , y'say?" Emil shouted over the music. "Name suits you!"

Richard reached out and gave Emil a shove to the shoulder. Emil maintained his grip on Remy's arm, causing the beer in his hand to spill into the grass.

Richard's eyes darted back to Remy's. "Mebbe you don't care 'bout girls after all," he suggested. "Seein' as how you've got yourself a little boyfriend now."

"Aw, you jealous, Dickie?" Emil said snidely. "I'm sure true love'll come along for you someday."

Richard, Emil, and Remy found themselves the focus of group of casual onlookers. The eager glances and the way the groups started to cluster on the sidelines told Remy they were hopeful to witness a fight. Remy twisted his wrist to free himself of Emil's grip, sloshing beer down Emil's shirtfront. The bottle hit the grass with a dull thud.

"Hey!" Emil protested as Remy turned away. "Remy!"

Remy moved quickly to escape the circle of social vultures before he could be penned in.

"You always let your dumb-as-fuck cousin do de talkin' for you, Remy?" Richard called after him. "Got nothin' to say for yourself?"

Remy had plenty to say, but was afraid that when the words started coming out of his mouth, they wouldn't stop. He'd been so long without anyone to talk to; words were meaningless, and wouldn't change a thing besides. To think, weeks ago he'd actually been excited for the chance to come to this party, to hang out with his friends, meet up with his girl and blend into the crowd of kids their own age. It was a rare opportunity. And then everything changed. A cousin and friend had died. A pact was made. A treaty was signed, and both he and Belle were brought before the combined Guild councils and told what had been decided for them.

Remy had stood there in dumbstruck silence. Belle had broken into one of her fits of rage, screaming at her father, then at Remy's father, Jean-Luc.

_You can't do this!_ Belle had screamed. _You can't take this decision away from us! It was ours to make!_

Remy's gaze had veered off into the distance, staring at nothing while listening to Belle shriek. He didn't realize Belle had been yelling at him as well until her voice had pierced through the haze of his conflicted thoughts.

_Remy!_ she had been exclaiming. _Don't just stand there! Say something!_

Remy had looked at her with an empty expression and then held his hands out to his sides helplessly. What could he have said that would change anything?

Belle hadn't spoken to him since that day. She'd found other ways to defy her father. She'd found ways to punish Remy for his inertia, for his unwillingness to fight back. When Jean-Luc LeBeau and Marius Boudreaux sat down to pen that peace treaty, binding their two families together through the betrothal of their youngest children, they'd destroyed anything that had been true and right between Remy and Belle. Suddenly, Remy had been stripped of the easy friendship they shared. The one honest thing Remy had, Belle's love, was taken away. And perhaps that love was a contrivance of their fathers' manipulations all along. Remy hated to think of that possibility; it would mean second-guessing his every action and everything he knew to be true.

Remy walked to the trough of ice and retrieved three beers by their necks, then started off towards the group of vehicles. More vehicles had appeared; more kids had emptied from cars and trucks to join the party. He wound through the vehicles in the relative darkness, passing the occasional occupied car with couples fumbling together in the backseats. He reached the gravel alongside the road and began walking. He'd distanced himself from the noise and chaos of the party, so he was able to hear the muffled shout. A car door flew open and a girl tumbled out. She struggled to throw the car door shut again, slamming it into the boy on the other side who was just climbing from the car after her.

"Hey!" he shouted as he pushed back against the door. The girl stumbled back, then turned decisively towards the bonfire and began marching towards it. "Hey!" the boy called after her again and then darted forward.

Remy had come to a stop alongside the road. He watched as the boy grabbed the girl forcefully by the upper arm and spun her around. She tried to squirm out of his grip, raising her hands to slap at his chest.

"Let go!" she screamed at him. The boy responded by grasping her other arm. He then gave her a shake that sent her long dark hair falling into her eyes.

Remy had almost instinctively turned toward the fighting couple, beers rattling against one other in his left hand. He moved one of them to his right.

The boy was hissing something into the girl's ear. She shouted back at him: "I said: _no_!"

Remy came to a halt just behind the other boy. "You're missin' de party, _mon ami_ ," he told the boy's back. "Girl don't want t'have fun wit' you. Best cut your losses and get."

The boy turned to look over his shoulder at Remy. "Who the fuck–," he began.

Remy let that familiar glow of anger fill him; felt it reach his eyes and set them alight. The light of the fire played across his face as he fared the other teen with a sinister tight-lipped smile. It was almost comical to watch as the other boy quickly released his grip on the girl to back away, using the girl's slim form as a shield between himself and Remy.

"Shit!" the boy exclaimed.

"You okay, _chère_?" Remy asked the girl.

Her mouth had been agape with fear as she stared at Remy. She closed it now and slowly nodded. The other boy reached out and grabbed her arm again.

"Let's get out of here!" he commanded and began pulling her towards the party.

The girl tried to pull herself free. Remy let his right arm swing out, connecting the end of the beer bottle in his hand with the bumper of a truck. The charge he'd set through the liquid inside caused the end of the bottle to shatter into a shower of bright red sparks.

"Don't touch her again," Remy told the boy, slowly lifting the broken bottle in his hand. The boy fell back a few paces in retreat. "Get lost."

The boy abandoned his date and fled towards the party with a shout of warning. The girl looked after him for a moment before turning back to Remy. She rubbed her arm absently.

" _Ça va_?" he asked her and tossed the broken bottle into the grass where it exploded with a soft pop.

She nodded once and wiped a hand across her face. "Y-yeah," she said.

"You need a ride home?" he asked her.

The girl glanced back at the party. "I don't–I'm..."

"I was leavin' anyway," Remy continued. He held out his left hand, where he still held two remaining beers. "One for de road?"

The girl was hugging herself, shivering a bit. Remy hoped it was from the cold and not from fright. She reluctantly reached out and took one of the beers from his outstretched hand.

"Thanks," she said.

"It's warmer in de truck," he told her and nodded at the black Ford F-250 beside him. When she gave no response, Remy went around to the driver's side door and out of her line of sight. He set the beer bottle down onto the hood while slipping a slim piece of metal from inside his jacket. He slid the tool down into the door through the window slot and with a quick jerk had the door unlocked and open. Remy grabbed his beer and hopped up into the cab. He leaned across the leather seats and opened the passenger door.

"You comin'?" he called out to her. "Got seat warmers and cup holders and everything."

Remy retrieved another bit of metal from his pocket and stuck it into the ignition.

_Some of these vehicles take a little finessing, this one might need to be coaxed...don't embarrass me now,_ he was thinking but then the ignition clicked and the engine rumbled to life.

The girl had put her hand to the handle just over the door and pulled herself into the truck. She closed the door behind her, sealing them both inside. Her eyes took in the vehicle's interior.

"This is a nice truck," she said appraisingly.

"Thanks. My daddy bought it for me," Remy told her with a sly smile. "For my sweet sixteen."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Really?" she said disbelievingly, but she smiled too.

"What's your name?" he asked her as he put the truck into drive.

She opened the beer bottle with a practiced hand. "Temperance," she replied and took a swig from the bottle.

Remy felt himself about to break into a wide grin, but quickly closed his lips over his teeth, turning his smile into a smirk. "Nice t'meet you, Tempy," he told her. "My name's Thomas."

Temperance frowned at him. "I know who you are. And your name isn't Thomas."

Remy put on an expression of surprise. "Really?" he said with confusion. "But that's what it says on my vanity plates."

The girl laughed.

Remy steered the truck onto the road, the ride was smooth even over the broken asphalt. "Y'know, Temperance isn't such a common handle. I might have heard of a girl with such a virtuous name 'round my part of town. Mid-City, yeah?"

He could see her glance at him from the corner of her eye. "Mid-City," she affirmed. "Yeah."

Remy nodded as he watched the road ahead. "Might've heard 'bout a _paint_ shop thereabouts, y'know. For trucks like dis one. A shop that could trick out a truck like dis pretty good."

Temperance shifted in her seat and took a long drink of her beer. She reached out and took the second bottle from where Remy held it between his legs. She twisted the cap off and tossed it onto the floor. Temperance returned the open bottle to Remy's outstretched hand. "Yeah, I know of a good shop. My brother owns it. I reckon he'd give you a fair price...on dis truck. I'll suggest it, on account of you bein' so heroic and all, coming to my rescue."

"It's real lucky us meetin' up like this," Remy told her.

"Must be fate," Temperance responded.

Remy smiled and took a sip of his beer. "This lemonade sure does taste good," he told her.

She shook her head at him, her brows raised incredulously. "It's not lemonade. It's beer, _Thomas_."

Remy took another drink as if to taste it a second time. He took his time considering the swallow. "Really? Well, 'bout damn time life gave me somethin' worth drinkin'. So how's about we take dis here lemon to your brother's place and have him fix me up wit' something worth drivin'?"

"Y'tired of your nice new truck already?" Temperance asked, her hand stroking the leather dashboard.

"I'd like t'pick somethin' out for myself," Remy told her. "Something a little sleeker, a lot faster, and more to my taste."

The girl brushed her fingers through her long hair, then pulled it over her shoulder. "Had anything in mind?"

"Yeah," Remy replied and tossed his empty beer bottle out the window. He saw it explode in the rear view mirror. "I need somethin' that'll take me as far away from dis place as I can get."

* * *

tres jolies filles – very pretty girls

mon frere – my brother

Ça va – how's it going

petit chou – endearment for a small child, used sarcastically in this instance


	7. Cold Turkey

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Seven Weeks Ago, The Morning**

When Remy regained consciousness, it took him some time to figure out exactly where he was. Several moments of disorientation were followed by groggy realization. He was in a darkened room, not his own, laying face-down in a bed with too many pillows, many of which were scattered onto the floor along with his discarded clothing. Remy lifted his head from under the blankets. His left eye throbbed in time with his heart. Somewhere in the distance he could hear bells ringing, which he concluded to be the sound that had roused him. He groaned and put a hand to his aching head. As he rolled over, he felt the warm weight of another person's arm slide from his lower back.

Remy's groan was lightly echoed by his companion, who protested in a mumbled whisper: "It's too early. Go back to sleep."

He sat up instead and rolled his head back along his shoulders, stretching his neck. Outside, the bells continued to ring. "It's a new day," he said to the woman beside him. Her face was pressed into the pillow, only one closed eye was visible through her tousled black hair.

"There's coffee if you want," she said into the pillow, her eye remaining steadfastly closed.

"None for me, _chère_ ," he told her and pressed a kiss to her temple. "But I'd make you a pot if you want. I could caffeinate myself vicariously."

She lifted the corner of her mouth in a smile. "Asprin's behind the mirror in the bathroom."

"God bless you," he said and slipped out of her bed.

He recovered his clothing from the floor and went into the adjoining bathroom. He pulled on his clothes and found pain-killers in the medicine cabinet. While regarding himself in the mirror, he winced a bit at his reflection and gingerly touched his left cheekbone. Remy found his way around the woman's apartment, made the coffee and returned to her bed with a mug in hand. She was just sitting up and rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. She yawned and accepted the cup.

"It really is too early," she told him. "If you give me a half-hour, we could go get breakfast."

Remy sat on the edge of her bed and watched her lift the coffee cup to her lips. She regarded him with her gray eyes over the lip of the mug. "Love t'take you up on de offer, but I got plans," he told her.

He could tell by the way her gaze narrowed a bit that she didn't believe him. "Uhm-hm," she said. "What kind of plans? This should be good."

When he told her, she laughed.

"You have a strange sense of humor," she told him, still not believing him, but her expression had softened. "Say a prayer for me?"

"I'll light a candle," he said and stood. She accepted a kiss on the cheek before he left. Remy found his jacket on her sofa and checked the pocket. The jacket smelled like her and the pocket's contents had been restored. Remy then stepped out the front door to her walk-up apartment. The wind was brisk and a chill spray of mist hung in the air. He took a few bracing breaths before trotting down the cement steps and onto the sidewalk. Remy's hand moved to the beads in his pocket and he began to walk towards the sound of the tolling church bells. His fingers sought the beginning of the strand.

_Best start at the beginning,_ he thought as he fingered the little silver crucifix. _I believe in God...the Father almighty..._

~ oOo ~

New York City, New York

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago, The Night Before

He spotted her from a distance and changed his original trajectory to intersect with her. She was leaning up against the side of the building, huddled around her cigarette in the defensive way smokers did when out in inclement weather. Remy was walking down the city street heading away from his apartment, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched against the cold air. The woman was in a white tee-shirt, black shorts, black hose and tennis shoes. She had a short black apron tied around her waist; a waitress on her smoke break. Her long dark hair hung in a ponytail over her shoulder. Remy fingered the sunglasses he was wearing despite the day being so overcast, ensuring they were firmly in place.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said to her in a flat, northern accent as he approached. "I'm going to have to ask you to extinguish that cigarette immediately."

Her eyes flicked up at him, her lips puckered around the cigarette mid-drag. When she spoke, smoke puffed from the corners of her mouth. "Wha–what?" she asked, stunned.

"Ma'am, with the ratification of our mayor's latest restrictions, I'm afraid smoking inside city confines has been banned," Remy said and began to reach inside his coat. "I'm going to have to issue you a ticket."

"I can't even smoke _outside_?" she asked, incredulously. Her disbelief quickly changed to outrage. "I can't _believe_ this bullshit!"

"I hope you aren't going to be uncooperative," Remy continued authoritatively.

The woman angrily snubbed her cigarette out on the wall and then deposited the butt into the nearby receptacle, glaring at Remy the entire time.

"I could let you off with a warning...," Remy said, withdrawing his hand from his inside pocket.

"Fine, great," the woman said sarcastically, her hands out to her sides. "Thank you so much."

"If you were willing to offer me a bribe," he added, slipping back into his normal pattern of speech. "Y'think I could bum a smoke?"

The woman's expression went momentarily blank. Her mouth slowly opened.

"Ha, had you goin' there for a minute," Remy said with a grin.

"You–," she began, then spontaneously slapped his upper arm. She looked instantly surprised and withdrew her hand as if burned. She considered him with wide eyes. "Oh my, I'm sorry offi–," she began before realization dawned on her. "Oh...wait. You're not really a cop, are you?"

Remy laughed outright.

"You jerk!" she said, making a fist as she hit him again. "You lying jerk!"

"I wasn't lyin' about wanting to bum a smoke," he told her. "But don't let anyone catch you wit' soft drinks bigger'n thirty-two ounces. Then you'll really be in trouble."

"This is just great," she muttered and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her apron pocket. "Perfect way to start my shift."

"You really mad at me?" he asked as he shifted to lean his shoulder against the wall, blocking her from the worst of the wind so she could light her cigarette.

She glanced at him side-long. When her cigarette was lit she inhaled and then exhaled a plume of smoke. "All right, I guess that was kind of funny. In that it was completely believable." She offered him the open end of her package of cigarettes while giving him an indignant glare.

He smiled at her and slid a cigarette from the pack. "Thank you very much," he said and placed the filter between his lips.

The woman reached back into her apron to retrieve her lighter. He waved her off. "No need. Have a light of my own," he said and lifted a finger to the cigarette's tip. A tiny charge had the end smoldering. The woman's eyes widened. Remy lowered his sunglasses and looked at her over the top of his lenses to wink at her.

"You've got...you're a mutant...?" she said a little breathlessly.

Remy's expression sobered and said in a hushed tone: "Actually, it's a funny story how I come by my super powers. Late one night, I was out in de bayou...when I was bit by a radioactive crawdad..." He widened his eyes dramatically.

The woman stared at him. Her fear was quickly evaporating. After a moment, she returned her cigarette to her lips. "You really can spin a line of shit."

"That's my secondary mutation," Remy added. "Which I got after fallin' head-first into a sorority toilet." He hoped she'd take the bait.

The corners of her lips curled upwards a bit. "A sorority toilet?"

"Yes. I was bombarded with Delta Gamma waves."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Was this the Zeta Theta chapter?"

Pleased she was playing along now he said: "Ah, Columbia girls... I have a thing for brainy women. They can get pretty creative. Where d'you go t'school?"

"I went to ESU," she told him with a shrug. "Where I got my degree in unemployment. Fine Arts."

"Unemployed? What d'you call dis?" he asked and pointed at her waitress apron.

"Temporary," she answered.

"You workin' late?"

She gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "Of course," she hooked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the open door of the bar behind her.

"What time you get off?" he asked.

She sucked irritably on her cigarette, clearly unamused by him now. "Around two."

"Ah, too late for me. By midnight I'll have turned into a pumpkin. Or some other hollowed-out vegetable," Remy said, merrily smoking the cigarette. "You expectin' to be busy?"

The woman pointed at the bar's name printed on the large glass window. "It's an Irish bar."

Remy stared at gold letters on the window. "Mac–Tee–Gews?" he read haltingly.

"It's pronounced: _McTeagues_ ," she said in a flat voice, then rolled her eyes. Finally, she shook her head and laughed. "What's your name?"

"Remy," he answered.

She laughed again. "Oh, right. Because everyone's French today. _Lassy-bon-temps-roo-lay_ ," she said and twirled her finger in the air in a parody of merriment.

"Pretty close," he told her.

"What's your name, really?" she asked.

Remy considered her a moment. "It's Scott," he said. "What's yours?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "People call me Ess."

"Like de letter S?"

"Like something short for Esther."

"I like Esther better," he said and finished his cigarette.

"Now I know you're lying again."

"De secret to a good lie is to always include an element of de truth," Remy informed her. "Ain't you cold, Ess?"

"I'm freezing," she replied, hurriedly finishing her own cigarette.

"I'd let you borrow my coat, but I think you're tougher than me," he said.

"That's almost gentlemanly," she said.

"'Almost gentlemanly' fits me to a 'T'," Remy said.

"Why don't you come in for a drink?" Ess asked him and nodded at the open door.

"Is it on de house?" Remy asked.

She fared him with a wry look.

"I gotta buy a lot a'girls drinks tonight," he informed her with a shrug. "It gets expensive."

"Should I start believing you now?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

"You might be de first," he told her.

"All right...you're cute. A drink on the house. But I still expect a tip," she told him and led him into the bar.

Remy followed her, noting that she might have added an extra bit of sass to her step as she marched through the door. "Shouldn't expect much from me, chère. I hate t'disappoint anyone."

The two drinks Ess passed him across the counter were enough to warm Remy up. Enough so that when he departed the mostly-empty bar he left his jacket behind. By the time Ess noticed he'd forgotten it, he was already a block away. He pretended he didn't hear her calling after him. It was two clubs later before he found himself at a place he could actually enjoy. Finally, somewhere that was getting into the spirit of things with the décor and the music; gold, purple, and green decorations and Cajun Two-Step rather than Dubstep. It was the familiar lineup, men cordoning off women at the bar, the usual posturing, the occasional thrown shoulder to establish turf. Remy had nearly forgotten how bored he was with the whole bar scene.

The dance floor however, was free of competition and full of unattended women. Many of the girls seemed unsure what to do with the change-up in music, and Remy was happy to give a quick demonstration with the help of a petite and well-stacked blond. She laughed when he spun her across the floor. Her short stature made it easy to fit her under the curve of his arm. Later, with her face flushed, he picked her up by the waist and sat her on the barstool he'd claimed for her. Even seated on the barstool she had to lean up to put an arm around his neck to kiss him. Her mouth tasted like the cheap pre-mixed Hurricanes the club had been serving all night.

By then, the inside of Remy's head was softly but pleasantly buzzing from the alcohol, his hearing dulled by the raucous music. The blond was pulling him down to press her lips to his ear.

"Want to get out of here?" she was asking.

Remy thought he hadn't heard such a wonderful suggestion in all his life. He was caught up in the drinks, the music, and the lights. Then there were her lips against his earlobe, her fingers combing through his hair, catching the frames of his sunglasses, which set them askew on his forehead. All these things distracted him from the sudden blow that caught him on the side of the face and sent him sprawling back into the bar.

He felt his broken sunglasses cut his cheek. The pain of the blow mixed with the alcohol and had his head spinning. With a delayed reaction, he reached up to put a hand over his eye. The petit girl had let out a shriek which cut through the epithet Remy heard shouted at him.

"Filthy mutie freak!" the man yelled. Remy braced himself against the bar and righted himself. The man, who was somewhat larger than Remy, was readying himself to throw another punch. People nearby were hastily retreating to a safer distance.

"Stop it!" the blond cried. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and to Remy's relief, focused on the attacker.

The man was distracted from continuing his attack on Remy by her protest. "You stupid slut!" he shouted at her. "Don't you know their kind can _breed_ now?" He pointed an accusing finger at Remy's chest.

"Breed?" Remy remarked. "Lord a'mercy. Do I have to explain de birds and de bees to you folks too? Last I learned, kissin' didn't pass any Y-chromosomes."

The man pulled the girl off her barstool and shoved her to the floor. "Mutie lover," he spat at her right before he turned to meet Remy's fist.

Remy had the attacker laid out flat on the floor with one solid blow to the jaw. Remy casually stepped over the man's prone form to help the girl to her feet. Several people had cried out in alarm after seeing the exchange of blows. Remy felt the shift in mood, the sudden change of climate from festive to dangerous. He led the girl from the bar and towards the front door. He could see the pair of bouncers heading in his direction.

Remy held up one of his hands, hoping to placate them. "We're leaving," he told them and fortunately, they allowed him to pass. They instead turned their attention to the man who had thrown the first punch.

The city street was as well-lit as if it had been daylight. There were numerous people out in front of the clubs, many wearing hats or masks or making noise. Remy turned to the girl.

"You okay?" he asked her.

She nodded, though she looked shaken.

"Sorry your night's ruined," he said. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved a string of beads. "Here," he told her as he settled the string of bright green, purple, and gold beads around her neck. "So you don't go away completely empty-handed."

"That guy–," she began, then shook her head. "What an ass. I feel like I should apologize on behalf of us humans."

"Don't worry about it," Remy told her and rested his hands on her bare shoulders. "You need a cab?"

She nodded. "I'm good. Thanks." She gingerly touched his cheek and winced in sympathy. "Oh, your face. You're bleeding."

Remy touched the back of his wrist to his cheek and saw it come away red with blood. The girl was fumbling in her small handbag. She handed him a few tissues. By now, they were drawing a few stares.

"I'm–I'm going to go. Do you want...?" she stammered, then let her sentence drift off.

Remy took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. "You have a safe trip home, chère."

She smiled at him apologetically as she climbed into a cab.

_Almost gentlemanly_ , Remy thought with a sigh.

~ oOo ~

When she received the phone call, she almost didn't answer it. Though the hour was late, Rogue hadn't yet turned in for the night. She was seated at a computer, her eyes scanning the report she was typing. Her cell phone buzzed for a second time and she inwardly groaned to herself. At the third buzz she began to feel a twinge of guilt; he'd always answered her calls and texts, she should probably return the favor. With reluctance, she picked up the phone from the desktop and put it to her ear.

"Hello." she said flatly.

"Hey, Roguey," Remy said brightly. "I need a favor."

Rogue sighed into the phone. "Remy, it's late. Can it wait until morning?"

"I wondered if you could give me a ride," he told her.

"A ride?" she echoed.

"Can you come pick me up?"

Rogue hesitated. "What–you mean _right now_?"

"Yeah," he responded. "I ain't far from Stark Tower. Please, Roguey?"

"Get a cab," she answered.

He laughed into the phone. "For some reason, no cabbie will stop for me!"

"Remy, are you drunk?" Rogue asked.

Remy paused. "Maybe just a bitty tit–tibby lit...a–uhm, yeah."

Rogue sat back in her chair. "Well, the cold air should help clear your head. You can walk back to your apartment."

"I need a ride t'de Bronx," Remy said.

"The Bronx!" Rogue responded, flustered.

"Please, chèrie, can you give me a lift?" he begged. "Ain't that what friends are for?"

"Remy Ah'm–."

" _Knowin' you can_ always _count on me...for sho'...'cause that's what friends are fooooor...!_ " he began to sing. She could only imagine what kind of dramatic scene he was causing wherever he was.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Central Park," Remy answered. "I'm by de zoo."

She shook her head even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Watch they don't take you in and keep you," she told him with resignation. "You find a bench and stay put. It's going to be at least fifteen-twenty minutes before I can get to you with traffic tonight."

"I'll be waitin'," Remy told her before disconnecting the call.

Rogue stared at her phone a moment before standing and shoving it into her back pocket. She found herself humming tunelessly as she took the elevator down to the garage. Irritated, she realized it was the Dionne Warwick song Remy had been singing. Rogue huffed impatiently. The last thing she wanted was her ex-boyfriend drunk-dialing her at...what time was it...? Rogue checked her cellphone. It was after midnight.

The traffic was, predictably, a nightmare. There was liquor-fueled revelry on the streets. Stopped at a traffic light, one of the partygoers encouraged Rogue to expose herself in exchange for a string of beads. Rogue stared stoically ahead, waiting for the light to change.

_Morons_ , she thought to herself. And Remy numbered among them. She was going to give him a piece of her mind. Calling her this late, drunk, acting like one of the tourists he hated so much. She was nearing the agreed-upon meeting place when she spotted Remy on the sidewalk walking in the opposite direction. Rogue slammed on her brakes and was rewarded with the blare of a cabbie's car horn from behind her.

"Dammit!" she said, and hit the gas while peering into her rearview mirror in search of Remy. He had disappeared into the crowd. She was going to murder him! Where was he _going_?

She continued along with the flow of traffic, fuming to herself. She eventually found herself near the zoo. Amazingly enough, Remy appeared. She hadn't been looking for him and was startled when he tapped on the passenger-side window. There was another blast from a car horn and Remy turned to wave apologetically at the angry driver. Hurriedly, Rogue unlocked the door and Remy slipped into the car bringing a gust of cold air with him.

"Remy–!" Rogue began, then took in his appearance. "Where's your coat? It's freezing out!"

"I forgot it somewhere," he said and turned to her. His left hand was holding a wad of tissues to the side of his face. She could see now why no cab had stopped for him.

"Mah god, you're bleedin'!" she said. "What _happened_?"

"Bar fight," he said and gave her a lopsided smile.

Rogue clutched the steering wheel. "You–ya big dummy! When are you goin' to–to be an adult?" She drew a breath and said more calmly: "And don't y'have t'be at school tomorrow?"

"I'm playin' hooky," Remy informed her.

Rogue turned to him and lifted his hand so she could see the damage for herself. "You're lucky you didn't get your eye put out."

"He punched me in my glasses," Remy said and assumed a pathetic expression.

"You need t'see a doctor," she replied. "And have that patched up."

"That's where you're takin' me," Remy told her and adjusted the heat vents. Rogue obligingly increased the temperature for him.

"Ah could just as easily drop you off at a clinic than drive ya clear t'the Bronx," Rogue told him.

"I want t'see a real doctor. Had enough of these quacks," Remy said with an airy wave.

"What are you talkin' about, sugah? What quacks?" Rogue asked.

"Last time I went to a doctor... No, not a doctor. It was a nurse. A male nurse. A murse."

"Remy, you're bein' sexist. Why didn't you go to Hank?"

"Spent nearly an hour makin' me describe what all's was wrong wit' me," Remy continued, "and then he gives me a pamphlet. Cost me seventy-five dollars, that pamphlet. Our health insurance sucks!"

Rogue glanced at Remy, but he was staring out the passenger-side window. "What kind of pamphlet?" she asked.

"Something about stress-management and work-life balance. Had a picture of a woman on de front of it, doin' this." He demonstrated a hunched-over pose, his hand to his forehead as if in pain. Then he leaned back into the seat with a sigh.

They sat in silence for several moments as Rogue drove. Finally, she said: "You feelin' okay now, Remy?"

"My face hurts," he said. His eyes were closed and his head tilted back into the headrest.

She was feeling more than a little concern for him at this point, her earlier irritation forgotten. He'd fallen silent, his hand still pressed to his face. She was beginning to wonder if he had passed out.

"Remy...," she began when he suddenly sat up.

"You can let me out here," he said.

"We've still got a few blocks to go," Rogue told him. "I'll drop you off. Is Cece expectin' you?"

"No, but she's hard to surprise. I can walk from here," Remy told her, his hand was on the door latch.

Checking her mirrors, she was able to sidle up alongside the parked cars and come to a halt. "All right, fine."

"Thanks for de ride," he told her.

"Take care of yourself, Remy. Ah guess Ah'll see you."

Remy paused to look at her. "Probably best if you don't," he finally said.

"Don't what?"

He sighed. "Don't see me. It's not like we travel in de same circles so much anymore."

Rogue shook her head and let out a breathless laugh. "We live in the same city, Remy. It's not like–."

"Let's not pretend we'll keep in touch. Don't feel like you're obligated t'answer my calls or call me back. That way you won't feel guilty when you don't," Remy said, his face expressionless.

"Ah think you're still drunk," Rogue said.

"Maybe not so drunk. Numb, more like...or less inhibited."

"Ah never imagined you had any inhibitions," Rogue tried to sound lighthearted.

He gave her a tight smile. "You'd be surprised at all the things I don't say on any given day."

"Well, that's a scary thought." Rogue was not enjoying this conversation. It was much easier to be angry with him.

"Let's just say goodbye."

"Ah was tryin' to when you got all sappy on me," Rogue told him.

"Say goodbye, like for good. I don't want to see you anymore."

She was taken aback for a moment, feeling as if he'd struck her in the chest.

"I thought I could," Remy continued. "Be a friend t'you. But I can't really. Because I know myself. I know I'll just keep waiting and hoping...thinkin' that if I do one more thing to make you see...I can't do it. I just can't. You're my last addiction I got t'give up."

Rogue turned the pain he was causing her into anger. She glared at him. "Thanks. That's real flattering."

"Can't you just say 'goodbye' now? Can you at least give me that?" He held out his hand helplessly.

Her jaw clenched. "Fine. _Goodbye_. There, now. Won't you feel stupid tomorrow when you sober up."

Remy sighed and opened the car door. He climbed out of the vehicle and then leaned down to look at her. "You know I still love you, right?"

Rogue turned away from his searching gaze, feeling her throat grow tight. "Yes," she managed.

"Okay. 'Bye, Rogue."

The door closed with a soft thump and she watched as he walked away.

~ oOo ~

"In light of recent events, getting punched in de face by an average human bigot is sort of a refreshing change of pace," Remy told her.

"Leave it to you to put a positive spin on being sucker-punched," Cecelia Reyes responded.

"I like t'look on de brighter side of things."

Cecelia sighed through her nose and inspected her work. She had Remy's chin grasped in one hand and she turned his face towards the light on the side table. Remy didn't need stitches, but the cut under his eye had been a very near thing. "I suppose this is to be expected. Humans are probably more than a little on edge right now given that the entire population of Earth was just terrorized by a single mutant."

"It's not like it was de first time," Remy replied reasonably.

Cecelia relinquished her grip on his chin and straightened. "I heard there is proposed legislation preventing humans and mutants from getting legally married."

"If I could, I'd vote for that. Spare anyone any further misery," Remy responded. "I tried to warn Jean-Paul–," Cecelia smacked Remy in the back of the head with the flat of her hand.

"Ow!" he said and gestured at his bruised face. "I have a head trauma here."

"Let me get you some ice," she said with a frown and moved into her kitchen. She called from inside her open freezer door: "Hopefully, the swelling will go down before you have to show up for classes tomorrow."

"I won't be going in," he told her when she returned with an ice pack. He made a small noise as she placed the ice against his eye.

"That will spare you from having to explain yourself," Cecelia said dryly as she stood over him, her hands on her hips. "I know how much you hate that."

"I'm not de only one who does things that defy explanation," Remy said, looking up at her with one eye. "I like t'keep people guessing."

Cecelia rested her hand on his shoulder. "Remy, believe it or not, it has become very apparent that you are exceedingly predictable."

"I resent that remark!" he told her, aghast.

She pointed at his wound. "Tell me this didn't happen because of a woman."

"That didn't," he responded, then reluctantly held up his bruised knuckles. "But this did."

"Uh huh," she said, unimpressed. "Predictable."

"I quit de X-Men today," he told her, abruptly changing the subject. "Did you predict that too, oh, omnipotent one?"

Cecelia studied him carefully, looking for a sign he was speaking in jest. "Just like you quit smoking, right?"

"Yup, cold turkey," he affirmed.

"Then why do you reek of cigarette smoke?"

"I was standing outside a bar," he explained.

Not a lie, but not the entire truth either. She asked: "And why would you quit?"

"Health reasons."

"I meant about quitting the X-Men."

"Me too," he delivered promptly.

Even though he responded with flippancy, she could tell he was giving a mostly-true answer again. "Are you sick?" she inquired.

"Nah, not really. It's all in my head. I got a pamphlet about it."

Cecelia sat herself back on the couch beside Remy. "What is it, then? What's in your head?"

He grinned at her. "Ask my father, he'll tell you its rocks. Others have suggested shi–erm, _crap_."

"When did you start feeling sick?" she persisted.

"I'm not sick. I just had a weird feeling...like something was wrong," Remy told her. "Kinda like a _deja-vu_ thing, where I feel like I already know what's comin' next. Or that I've completely forgotten something."

"When did this start?"

Remy shrugged. "Comes in flashes every once in awhile. First time it happened was a couple weeks ago."

"What were you doing when you had your first...flash?"

"Sittin' in de Costco parking lot," Remy said.

"You were at Costco?" Cecelia asked, her eyebrows coming together in consternation.

"We were out of some things. I volunteered t'go. Anything to get out of de school for awhile. Plus, I like observing normal folks in their native habitat," he explained. "Tired mommies, demanding toddlers...bored-looking dads with paunches. How d'you think I'd look with a gut? Happy, I bet."

She held up her hand to stop him and redirect the conversation. "So you were in Costco when you had the feeling something was wrong?"

"No, I never made it into Costco. Which is too bad, because they're always givin' out free samples on toothpicks in there," he digressed. She stopped him with a stare. He continued: "I was in de parking lot looking at de grocery list. Then I felt weird."

"The _deja-vu_ feeling?" she asked.

"I guess. Kinda like I was frozen in place for a second, staring at de list. It felt like some kinda portent of doom. Af if not buying de economy pack of Charmin was gonna be de end of de world."

"It sounds like you had a panic attack."

"Which I could expect if I were at Wal-Mart, but this was Costco," Remy said.

"Please be serious," Cecelia told him.

"I didn't have a panic attack. I was grocery shopping," Remy said a little impatiently.

"Has it happened again?" she asked.

"A couple of times."

"When was the last time?" she asked.

"This morning. I was cleaning out my room." His hand strayed to the place over his heart when he realized he wasn't wearing his coat. The ring he'd placed in his coat pocket wasn't there.

"Is this why you decided to leave?" Cecelia asked. "These flashes?"

"Not entirely," Remy said. "I've decided to pursue other opportunities."

"Such as...?"

"I think I'm looking for something that suits me better than battling cosmic forces beyond my understanding. Something...else. That I've got a talent for."

Cecelia regarded him for a few moments before looking down at her clasped hands. "I won't say that I'm... _unhappy_ to hear you want to leave the X-Men," she said finally. "It's kind of a relief."

"I suppose I learned that you don't have to be a costumes and capes kinda person to make a difference. I have you t'thank for that," Remy added.

She looked up at him then and smiled. "That's the nicest compliment you've ever paid me."

"What about de time I told you how much I liked that one pair of jeans you got...de ones that make your–," Remy began and she put her hand over his mouth.

"Let's not ruin the moment, shall we?" she said with a raised brow. "And I'm...excited for you. When I think of what you could accomplish. I mean, there are so many opportunities for you to help. What with your experiences and all...you could really relate–make a connection with the people who've fallen through the cracks. The homeless, or...I could maybe introduce you to some kids I know. They could really use someone–."

Remy held up his hand in surrender. "Can we slow down a sec, _ch_ ѐ _re_?" he said with a laugh. "What kinda plans you have in mind for me, anyway? I wasn't thinkin' of becoming some kind of mutant social worker."

She paused. "Well, what were you thinking of doing?"

Remy lowered the icepack from his eye. He glanced at Cece sidelong and gave her a coy grin as she looked on at him stoically. "Are you havin' fun at my expense, _chѐre_?" When her expression became questioning he laughed again. "What happened t'your powers of prognostication?"

"You can't possibly be thinking of going back to stealing," she said incredulously, and put the hand holding the icepack back to his eye.

"Well, what else would I do Cece?"

She held out her hands, palms facing upward. "Anything!" she said with exasperation. "After all you've done, you can't just return to a life of crime."

"I have a very particular set of skills..," Remy said with an air of mystery. He brightened: "And as it turns out, my skills are in demand."

Cecelia's hands fell back into her lap. "You are better than this," she said.

"And here I thought you were happy for me." He put the icepack back into her limp hand.

"You should go home and sleep on this," she informed him.

"This isn't some spur of de moment thing. I've been thinkin' about this for awhile, Cecelia."

"Think harder."

Remy sighed. "You're not like the other women in my life. You always knew who you were. I like that about you. But I also know who I am."

"Which is what? A thief?" she demanded.

"I'm only my best person when someone needs me. You need me like a fish needs a bicycle," Remy stood then. "I should probably go."

She followed him to the door. "Let me know if you have another one of those flashes, Remy. I'd like to help you if I could."

"I'll keep you in mind, Cece," he said as he opened her apartment door. Once in the hall he turned to her. "Maybe in de meantime, you can think of a reason t'need me."

~ oOo ~

Remy pushed open the door only to hear a voice call out: "We're closed!"

Remy smiled to himself. "What happened to 'last call'?" he asked as he walked over to one of the barstools; the last to have not been turned upside-down onto the counter. Esther was there, her hand resting on the bar, a rag held in her opposite hand. Remy casually sat on the remaining stool and she fared him with an unconvincing glare.

"What happened to your face?" she asked, her stern look evaporating.

"Someone put their fist into it," Remy explained. "I seem t'have de kind of face a guy likes to punch."

"Ouch," she said and peered at him a little more closely with just a touch of concern.

"You haven't seen my coat anywhere, have you?" he asked as he spun slowly on the cracked vinyl stool, his eyes scanning the empty bar.

She tucked her rag into her apron pocket. "I might have. And I might have thought you'd left it on purpose if I hadn't found this in the pocket." Esther held out her left hand and flashed the diamond ring she wore on her third finger.

"How fortunate that it should fall into such capable and trustworthy hands," he said and took her outstretched hand. "And how lovely it looks on you." He attempted to bring the back of her hand to his lips.

"Hmp," she snatched her fingers back from his grip. "Well, it kept all but the worst of the jerks from trying to pick me up." She gave him a pointed glance.

He smiled broadly at her. "Worst of de worst, me."

"Won't your soon-to-be fiance be upset I'm wearing this?" she asked and twiddled her fingers so the diamonds caught the dim light.

Remy shook his head. "There's no misses in my future," he told her.

"So...she turned you down? Or is precognition one of your _other_ mutant powers?" Esther asked.

"It's not so much that I can see de future as that I'm completely predictable. Or so I've been told. Make de same mistakes over and over again," Remy answered.

She considered him for a few moments. "You know what that makes you, right?"

"Stupid...?" he supplied.

"It makes you human."

Remy took her hand again. "Can I walk you home, Esther?" he asked.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On if I can wear your coat," she replied. "It's cold out."

"Whatever you need," Remy answered.


	8. Time and Again

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, Eleven Years Ago**

Remy was revived by a sharp, hard slap to the back of his thighs. He emitted a cry of surprised pain and thrust his arms forward. He propelled himself off the couch to land flat on his back on the wooden floor. The hand-knit quilt followed him, caught up in the tangle of his flailing limbs.

"Get your lazy backside up off my couch!" Tante Mattie was ranting in rapid-fire staccato, wooden spoon in hand.

" _Aïe! Tante!_ " Remy cried and threw his arms over his head, half hiding under the blanket.

"D'you think you can come out here and just lay about all day?" Tante Mattie continued.

Remy curled up around the blanket on the floor. "Aahn...Tattie. I sick," he moaned. "Quit yellin'."

"You ain't sick," she snapped and tapped him on the head with her spoon. "You hungover. You ain't foolin' anybody!"

Remy tried to pull the blanket back over his head but Tante Mattie snatched it away from him. "Up, up, up!" she was saying while Remy whined in protest.

"Ohh," Remy said. "I'm like t'die."

Tante Mattie seized him by the arm and hauled him upright. "Serves you right, _kouyon_. Now get yourself up and outdoors. You want to hang about here you're gonna do some work."

Remy leaned his forehead against his drawn-up knees. "I'm sick, I say. You'll be sorry when I drop dead."

He was answered with another smack to the back of the head. "Don't you _ever_ talk that way!" Tante Mattie said.

Remy crawled away from her wrath before climbing ponderously to his feet. "Why you gotta be so mean t'me?" He rubbed the back of his head.

"There's folks've got it a lot worse'n you. You got no reason t'complain," Tante Mattie said and folded her arms over her chest. "Now get outside and tend to them chickens before I give you somethin' t'complain about."

Remy did some more incoherent whining and moaning as he stomped across Tante's living room. He snatched up his jacket before throwing himself out her front door. He did truly feel miserable, but not from drinking. The previous night he had delivered the girl, Temperance, to her older brother's care. As for the truck, formerly owned by Thomas something-or-other, it was placed in the hands of several mechanics who had dismantled the vehicle to its component parts in under an hour. The elder brother then offered Remy a ride home, seeing as Remy now lacked a mode of transportation. Remy accepted the ride out to Tante Mattie's house.

If he had been intoxicated at the time, the wad of hundred dollar bills pressed into his hand would have been enough to sober him up right quick. Remy had handled art, jewels, and artifacts worth more than the sum he'd gained from selling the truck to the chop shop. The difference, however, lie in that the money was entirely his. His, and not the Guild's. As far as Remy was concerned, no one needed to know about the cash he now had stashed inside an old cigar box in Mattie's attic. The money only nurtured the idea planted the previous night. The sight of the open road with himself seated at the steering wheel was inspiring; he could see the possibilities stretching out before him. The answer to his problems was simple...he could just run away from them.

Once out on the front porch, Remy stretched his aching muscles. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms until spots of light appeared behind his closed eyelids.

_Probably sore from sleeping on that lumpy ole couch_ , he thought sullenly. Remy scanned the landscape. The yard was lit up with bright sunshine. The temperature was mild but he folded himself into his coat, feeling somewhat chilled. There was a wire egg basket on the seat of a worn painted chair nearby. He picked the basket up by the handle and stepped down from the porch. He squinted in the dazzling sunlight and ducked his head.

Remy had been sick, very sick, several months ago with complications from hypothermia. His complaints then had been in protest to Tante Mattie's ceaseless doting and mothering. He didn't want her care then, feeling undeserved of her love and attention when he was still alive and his cousin very dead. He had plenty of time to consider his own mortality while floating adrift at sea for the hours after escaping from The Pig's Pen.* It was a toss-up to which was more painful, starving on the streets abandoned and ignored by the people around him...or freezing to death alone in the middle of nowhere.

_Could be worse,_ Remy thought and rubbed his head with his free hand, raking his fingers through his longish tangled hair. _Could be both at the same time._

The chicken coop was at the back of the property, just within sight of the window over Mattie's kitchen sink. He could feel her staring at him now as he trudged towards the coop. He didn't mind the chickens so much. They made a nice, contented sort of clucking sound when they milled about in the grass. The rooster was another matter. He was big, he was noisy, and he was mean. Several hens had their feathers pulled out by his relentless attentions. Remy himself had been pursued across the yard by the evil bird. He held the wire basket before him like a shield.

_Lookit me. I'm Cap'n America,_ Remy thought ducking behind the shelter of the basket, wary of the cock he could hear but not yet see.

The rooster was squawking somewhere nearby. The hens were ill at ease and scattered when Remy approached. He saw a flash of red-brown feathers and spotted the cock hopping up and down in the weeds.

There was a hoe set up against the chicken coop. Remy picked the hoe up and walked towards the flapping, angry bird. He swung the wire basket to shoo the rooster aside. The bird fussed and clucked at him, staring at Remy with one marmalade-colored eye full of hate. Remy sent the basket spinning after the bird to send him on his way. The bird squawked and launched itself into the air to land on top of the coop.

_Take that, Rhode Island Red Skull,_ he thought at the bird.

Remy then turned his attention to the thing that the rooster had been attacking. He saw it was a kingsnake, speckled black and yellow. The rooster had been throttling the snake and protecting his domain. Remy could see the lump in the snake's body, either an egg or a chick, swallowed whole by the predator. Remy placed the hoe's blade to the back of the stunned snake's head. If it were Mattie standing with the hoe, the snake's head would have been off in a heartbeat. Remy glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen window. Seeing no one, he slowly lowered himself to wrap his hand around the snake, at the place just behind its head. He set the hoe aside and picked the constrictor up with both hands. The frightened snake released a terrible stink and Remy held it well away from his body. He started off into the woods with it.

Remy tread a familiar path through the woods. In the time he had been taken into his father Jean-Luc's care, he'd become somewhat accustomed to life outside of the city. Prior to then, his only experience with wild animals was with feral cats, rats, pigeons, and the occasional raccoon. There were lots of animals out where his Tante Mattie lived; deer and opossums and nutria and turkeys. There were also a lot of snakes. The one he held now was harmless, unless you were a chicken. Tante would be sore at Remy for saving the snake. But in Remy's thinking, killing the snake wouldn't make the chick any more alive.

The path he walked along now was one he'd walked many times before. He would take the path to a clearing on the edge of Tante Mattie's property where he used to meet up with Belle. Remy would pretend not to hear Tante Mattie calling for him and in turn Mattie would pretend not to know where Remy was or what he was up to. The reality of a boy and a girl being alone together was a lot more innocent than what one would imagine. Sex only happened when they were bored or ran out of things to talk about. Remy had never been bored when with Belle. And they'd only stopped talking very recently. Before that, there was swimming and swinging and climbing and all the other things he'd never had the leisure to do because he was too busy just trying to survive on the New Orleans streets.

When he reached the clearing, he saw that a tree had fallen across a stretch of water. The tree created a crossing to a patch of ground previously inaccessible by land. Remy walked to the fallen tree and shoved it with his foot. The tree was stable. Broken branches crunched underfoot as Remy climbed up onto the tree trunk. He walked down its length to the opposite shore. Once on the opposite side, he hopped down from the fallen tree. Remy walked a few paces to a patch of weeds. He crouched and loosened his grip on the snake. He felt the smooth scales and powerful muscles of its length as the snake slipped through his hands. The snake's belly touched the leaf-covered ground, and it paused as if tentative to accept its newfound freedom. Its forked tongue tasted the air. Suddenly, it took to the ground and slithered quickly away. Remy watched it disappear into the grass.

Remy picked up a long tree branch and began to explore the island, poking the ground before him with the stick to search out sink holes in the marshy turf. In a little under a half-hour he completed a circuit of the island and returned to the fallen tree. He looked at the cracked stump. Remy jammed the end of his walking stick under the fallen tree trunk and attempted to leverage the tree into the water. It rocked slightly as Remy shoved, but then resettled back into the muddy ground. Thwarted in his efforts, he struck the tree with the stick. He swung again with a little more force. The third swing cracked the stick in two. With a small grunt of effort, he sent the broken branch spinning out over the water where it landed with a splash. He reclaimed the other end of the broken branch and snapped it over his knee, then tossed the pieces one after the other into the water. Remy sat on the tree trunk and slouched with his elbows resting on his thighs. He wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish by trapping himself on the island.

This was not the island he hoped to find himself alone on. Where he really wanted to be was the island of Manhattan. That was the plan, to make his way to New York City. He would disappear into a crowd of eight million people, find himself hidden in a place where people were stacked one on top of another for stories into the sky. A place where everyone was a stranger. Where people could live next to one another for years and never know their own neighbor's name. Your neighbor could die alone in his apartment and no one would know for days. Not like here, where there was always a neighbor looking over the fence or stopping by with news. Most often the news happened to be about Remy himself. In New York, no one would know him. There would be no _Diable Blanc_ , no Guilds, and no Rites of Passage.

Remy needed new identification, transportation, and cash. More cash than what he'd stowed in Mattie's attic. He would figure out the rest once he got to New York. He also entertained a ghost of a thought at the back of his mind: that New York would be the place where he would find more people like himself. Not part-demon, not touched by Satan himself, as the rumors around town would have everyone believe, but a mutant. Remy had seen mutants on the news, though the media purported that all mutants were a lurking menace and a threat to society. Surely, Remy thought, there had to be some mutants who didn't wear purple capes. Mutants who didn't try to steal nuclear missiles. And besides, there were all sorts of strange folks in New York with powers. What difference did it make if Remy was born with his powers or had gotten them after being zapped by space rays like the Fantastic Four?

Remy reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a pack of playing cards. With practice, he had learned how much of a charge an object would take. He'd learned a lot more about how big of a bang he could actually make. Remy flipped open the lid of the little cardboard box and ran his thumb over the playing cards inside. He didn't so much see a deck of cards but fifty-two little bombs. Cards were easy to come by, easy to carry, and easy to charge. Not so easy to throw, as he was coming to find out. Remy stood and walked a few paces away from the tree. There were times when the card would simply snap itself out of his fingers and fly true. Then there were the times a card would spin back and cut through the air in an arc, sending Remy diving for cover. He hadn't quite managed to consistently throw an entire deck's worth of cards without incurring some sort of injury.

With a card held loosely in his fingertips, he took aim at the tree stump. Remy made an effort to keep himself calm. The worst throws usually came when he was trying too hard. The slightest charge had the card in his hand glowing. Remy let his arm fly out, felt the card leave his fingers and watched it spin across the open expanse of air. The card missed its mark, but not by too much. It exploded, sending up a small clod of dirt and grass. He let out the breath he'd been holding and told himself to breathe normally. The second card flew nearer to the stump, but farther out over the water. A small gout of water appeared when the card detonated.

_Stupid_ , he told himself and readjusted his stance. _If you'd only learned how to use these powers for something other than playing pranks_... Remy tossed the third card and it caught the breeze to spin up in a tight arc. With a surprised cry he dashed aside as the card exploded overhead.

" _Enh, zut_!" Remy said, raising his arms over his head. He angrily climbed to his feet and brushed at the mud on his jeans. _Likely kill myself before I get it right_ , he thought. _Then that'll be two of us dead because I can't use my powers proper-like. If you can see me now, Etienne, I hope you're having yourself a good laugh._

As the fourth card left his grip he let out a short exhalation. He knew the card would fly right the moment it left his hand. Remy didn't have but a second to enjoy his success before the card exploded against the stump with more force than he'd intended. Remy stumbled back as he was struck with shards of debris. He landed on his backside on the grass, his hands flying up to protect his face a moment too late. A bit of wood caught him on the cheek just below his left eye. The yell that escaped from his lips was more a scream of frustration and anger rather than from pain. His arm swung out and he sent the remainder of the deck spinning. Cards flew out across the island and into the water where they landed harmlessly; just paper and plastic strewn pathetically across the grass.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Remy shouted, tearing up clumps of grass as he regained his feet. He kicked the stump in a helpless rage. "God dammit!"

It always seemed that when success was just within reach, something happened to set him back another step or two. There was no easy win, nothing came to him without a fight, nothing was given to him without strings attached. Remy let himself give in to the anger. He felt it welling up inside his skull, blocking out all other thoughts. He put his hands over his eyes and yelled.

A bright light seemed to shine through the blackness of his closed eyelids. With a jerk, Remy lowered his hands and opened his eyes to stare at his open palms. He saw then that the glow was coming from himself. The surroundings were awash in the bright light, outshining the sun itself. Remy felt as if he were being pulled forward, like a puppet on a string. The light was so bright, he could see nothing else. He yanked himself back and stumbled a few paces, suddenly free from the pulling sensation, the string snapped.

Remy found himself on the far side of the island. He wavered unsteadily on his feet. He reached out a hand to brace himself on a nearby tree.

" _Quoi_ –?" he thought, putting a hand to his spinning head. He then heard a sharp cry.

" _Enh, zut!_ "

Remy looked around for the source of the sound. He stumbled to the next tree and caught himself against the trunk. He felt very disoriented. There came the sound of a sudden explosion and Remy instinctively ducked. There was another cry. Remy released the tree and trotted forward several paces. He passed through the brush to see a small clearing and the now-familiar stump. He saw a vision of himself a few yards away, laying in the grass pitching a fit.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! God dammit!" he heard himself cry.

_Do I really sound like that?_ Remy thought dazedly. He watched as his other self threw the deck of cards, scattering them across the island and into the water. _Is that how I look?_

Remy continued to watch the events he'd just lived through transpire a second time, thinking to himself that he looked like a stupid child, throwing a tantrum. As his past self disappeared in a flash of light, Remy fell forward, his arms reaching out to brace himself for impact.

~ oOo ~

Remy heard his name being called. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. His hands reached out to touch his face when he realized he was not blind, as he had first thought, but that it was dark. Now other sounds were reaching his ears. He could hear crickets and frogs. A mosquito whined by his ear and he slapped it away. It was night. Remy could make out the moon through the branches of the trees overhead. He sat up slowly. The moonlight danced on the water. Remy could see another light bobbing through the darkness; a flashlight.

Remy heard his name again.

"Over here," he said, though his voice was swallowed up by the nighttime sounds. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Here!" he called. "I'm over here!"

The flashlight's beam arced towards him and Remy held up a hand. A second beam joined the first. There were two figures making their way towards him. Remy put his hand to the fallen tree and pulled himself up onto it. He felt dizzy and tired.

"Remy!" a voice called. He recognized it as his father's. "What are you–," Jean-Luc began, then interrupted himself. "Stay here, Mattie. I'll go across."

Remy felt the slight tremor through the tree trunk as his father walked down its length towards him. "Remy, _bon dieu_ , where have you been?" his father asked with impatience that barely covered up his concern. "Are you hurt?"

Remy wiped at the tacky smear of blood on his face. "No," he said even as his father leaned down closely to look at Remy's injury.

"What happened?" Jean-Luc asked, his hand on the back of Remy's head.

"Nothin'," Remy said. "An accident. I fell."

"You've had Tante Mattie worried sick. Where have you been all dis time?" Jean-Luc said as Remy pulled himself from his father's grip.

"Here," Remy said. "I've been here. On dis island."

Jean-Luc made a disgusted sound and pulled Remy to his feet. "For two days, you been out here?" he said with disbelief. "You had us thinkin' you dropped off de face of the earth. Or got swallowed up by it!"

"No, 's true," Remy complained as he was pulled across the little bridge created by the fallen tree. "I–I lost track of time."

Remy was taken into Tante Mattie's custody. She seemed to be torn between throttling him and hugging him fiercely. "You–you little monster! I oughta tan your hide for makin' me worry!"

"I'm sorry, Tante!" Remy cried breathlessly as he was crushed against her front. "Please, stop!"

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you be in?" Tante Mattie scolded, shaking him by his shoulders.

Remy glanced back at the island. "Just a hunch," he said.

~ oOo ~

Jean-Luc often accused Remy of having an overactive imagination, particularly when he was at lessons, in church, or any other time when he was supposed to be keeping still. Remy found if he spent any amount of time in a stationary position, his brain began to work overtime as if to make up for his lack of motion. Jean-Luc also observed that the opposite was true; if Remy was in action, he seemed to put very little thought into his rather impulsive and unpredictable behavior.

"It's too bad you can't seem t'do both at the same time. Think and act," Jean-Luc had scolded. "Give some thought to what you do before you do it. Instead of usin' that imagination of yours to cook up some tall tale to cover your tracks."

When Remy had been questioned about his whereabouts over the last two days, he insisted he didn't recall. He told Jean-Luc that he'd fallen on the island and woke up much, much later. Jean-Luc wasn't buying it, and continued to press Remy for the truth. Finally, Remy confessed to having been hiding in BellaDonna's bedroom the entire time. This made Tante Mattie's blood boil, but mollified Jean-Luc. Remy figured it was a safe enough lie. That if asked, Belle would deny it, and not just because it wasn't true, but that she didn't want anything to do with Remy at the moment. And though Mattie was sore at him for making her worry, she couldn't trump Jean-Luc's "boys will be boys" mentality. Remy was let off with a warning, but he'd have to steer clear of Tante Mattie for a few days or he'd end up having to muck out the chicken coop or worse, be forced to eat green vegetables.

Remy was fairly certain he hadn't imagined the events of the past few days. It had only seemed like hours to him, but the calendar didn't lie. Remy was missing two days from his life. Could he have been unconscious all that time? He suspected otherwise. He decided to bring his hypothesis to the only person he could think of who might be capable of providing some answers. Remy was going to talk to The Witness, who seemed to know things he couldn't possibly know.

The Witness was certainly the strangest person Remy had ever encountered. There were plenty of strange people in New Orleans; voodoo priestesses, oracles, magicians, cat ladies, vampires, and there was even a man who wore a duck on his head, just to name a few. It was harder to name what The Witness was. Perhaps he was a mutant, perhaps a madman, maybe both. The Witness wasn't very good at answering questions. He also wasn't very nice, not usually, except if you were a pretty woman...or a child. This was one of the few instances Remy was glad he wasn't an adult yet.

Remy walked down Magazine Street to where The Witness had a storefront. It was not in the best part of town with all the galleries and antique stores, but within a block that contained a bodega, a tattoo parlor, a uniform store, and a Planned Parenthood. It wasn't too terribly far from Audubon Park in Uptown. It was also right next door to a place that Remy knew to be a good source of free candy.

Mrs. Muñoz was a shorter woman, and even though she was an adult, she and Remy were of a similar height. She was older with gray streaks in her thick black hair that she always wore in a bun. Her face was round and she wore lots of black eye makeup that made her eyelashes look like spider's legs. She was always kind to Remy, probably because she was under the impression, as many were, that Remy was either blind or not very bright. Remy wore a pair of dark-lensed glasses of such an unfashionable style people often assumed he couldn't see. Remy usually paired the glasses with clothes in outrageous colors; at the very least people supposed Remy was colorblind.

Mrs. Muñoz loved to complain about The Witness, and she vacillated between making the Sign of the Cross or uttering curses when she spoke about him.

"I don't know that you can do anything to save that crazy _viejo_ ," she told Remy and pressed a piece of wax paper-covered candy into his palm.

Mrs. Muñoz also loved Remy because he was an altar boy at the church she attended. Remy could do no wrong in her eyes, and attributed his visits to The Witness as some kind of charity work.

"Just like my Paulo," Mrs. Muñoz liked to say. Remy was an altar boy just like Paulo had been once. Mrs. Muñoz measured everything against her son. She made certain foods because that's what her Paulo liked. Other men weren't as handsome or clever as her Paulo. No woman was good enough for her Paulo. The Witness had said that her Paulo was a spoiled, dimwitted pretty-boy who was just waiting for his _mamacita_ to croak so he could sell her bodega and hare off to South America to get drunk and stupider. This was just one of many instances where Mrs. Muñoz and The Witness did not see eye to eye.

Remy peered behind Mrs. Muñoz and into the store. Paulo was seated behind the counter staring at a football match on the television mounted from the ceiling. Paulo's pinky finger was digging in his ear as he looked open-mouthed at the screen. Remy was of the opinion that The Witness was probably right about Paulo.

"Look at this mess," Mrs. Muñoz said, gesturing to the sidewalk in front of her store. "That crazy _viejo_ feeds those filthy birds and now I've guano up and down my front walk."

Remy silently observed Mrs. Muñoz's demonstration while chewing on the hardened taffy she'd given him. He had been strictly forbidden from eating candy, and he was pretty sure his orthodontist was going to be angry later. Remy nodded in agreement with Mrs. Muñoz, then swallowed.

"Is he here?" Remy asked and pointed at The Witness' storefront.

Mrs. Muñoz flapped her hand dismissively. "Oh, he's there. Twice today I've complained about this mess he makes. Does he listen to me? No!" She turned and shouted into the shop. "Paulo, bring the water hose! Paulo!"

Paulo was cheering for his team and doing a victory lap down the drug aisle. " _Goooooal_!" he cried.

"Oh, never mind. I'll get it." Mrs. Muñoz reentered her shop. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Remy and say with warm indulgence: "My Paulo likes his football."

Remy stared after her, shoved the remainder of the taffy into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. It was reassuring to hear The Witness was in his shop. There were times he had come to the shop to find it empty, the lights off, the windows soaped. When he had asked Mrs. Muñoz where The Witness was, she had looked at him curiously.

_Qué_? she had asked with a little concern.

_The man next door_ , Remy had said and pointed to the empty shop.

_That store's been empty for years!_ Mrs. Muñoz had said.

It was as if The Witness hadn't existed at all. The next week, The Witness was back, the shop door open. And seemingly, Mrs. Muñoz's recollection of how much she hated her neighbor was restored.

_You disappeared! What happened?_ Remy had asked The Witness.

_Sneezing fit_ , was the reply.

Remy approached The Witness' shop now. The narrow storefront had once been painted green and gold, but the paint had badly flaked, revealing a coat of faded pink underneath. Gold letters spelled out the store name on the glass pane set in the wooden door. Remy was about to step up onto the single stone plinth that served as the front stair when he heard a crash of a trashcan falling from the alley. Remy peered around the corner and into the alley between the bodega and The Witness' shop. He spied a gray cat with a bird in its mouth. It growled at him ferociously.

"Hist," he said to the cat. "Drop it!"

The cat crouched to dart away. Remy stooped to pick up a piece of pea gravel. He flung it after the cat, which let out a surprised squall as the tiny charged rock hit its rump. The bird was dropped and the cat ran off down the alley. Remy walked towards where the bird lay flapping on the ground. He crouched and picked it up and cradled it lightly in his hands. It was a small reddish bird, he wasn't sure what kind. Remy could feel its heart beating very fast against his fingers. The bird gave a sudden sigh, then it closed its eyes and its head drooped. The fast beating ceased.

"Oh," Remy said, surprised. He continued to look at the little bird in his hands. He lifted a finger and rubbed the bird's back, thinking it would revive. It had just been so alive a second ago.

"Likely died of fright," said a voice from the mouth of the alley.

Remy startled. He quickly turned to see the lean, angular form of The Witness standing behind him. Even in the dim alley, the tall man seemed unnaturally pale. Long white hair framed his narrow face.

"It was de cat," Remy said. He straightened and walked towards where The Witness stood.

"You stole its lunch," The Witness said. He had a shoebox in his hand. He extended the open box towards Remy.

Remy looked at the open box, then up at The Witness. The Witness' expression was inscrutable behind the small smoke-colored lenses he wore. After a moment, Remy set the bird inside the shoebox. The Witness closed the shoebox lid, then walked from the alley and back out onto the sidewalk. Remy followed.

Mrs. Muñoz was rinsing her front walk with the spray from a garden hose. She gave The Witness a glare. "Quit putting food out for vermin!" she called, waving the hose. "You see the trouble you cause by attracting all these filthy birds?"

"You may be right, señora," The Witness told her, his hands wrapped around the box.

Mrs. Muñoz regarded him, unsure of The Witness' sudden candor. He always wore an ironic grin, so it was hard to tell when, if ever, he was being serious. Remy waved to Mrs. Muñoz apologetically as they stepped into the shop.

The bell over the door rang as The Witness entered. Remy was greeted with the smell of printed paper and tobacco. A number of clocks ticked away on the walls. Remy saw that there was a patron inside the shop which was somewhat unusual. The Witness' cantankerous attitude was off-putting to most people. Remy saw the customer was a man he knew, Dan Down, who owned several buildings in town. Mr. Down was reading a newspaper.

"Hey, where d'you get these gag papers from, anyway?" Mr. Down said conversationally as he flicked through a copy of _The Wall Street Journal_ dated for several years in the future. "A Black president? That's a laugh. Now I've seen everything."

"Maybe more than most," The Witness said as he walked towards the shop counter. "But not everything." It was known that Mr. Down could read the cards, but only when playing Poker. He often lost, so he probably wasn't very good at predicting the future. The Witness set the box with the bird inside onto the worn wooden countertop. "This ain't a lendin' library. Pay for de paper or get out."

Dan lowered the newspaper to look at The Witness, a wide grin on his dark face. "You can't kick me out of my own building. Hey, hey. There's Remy. What's this now? _Two_ customers in one day? That's unheard of. Maybe you'll make rent this month, yeah?"

The Witness sat himself on a stool behind the counter. He apparently didn't feel the need to remark on Dan's comment. Instead, he picked up a small screwdriver and set to fiddling with the mechanical mess he had out on the counter.

Undeterred, Dan continued. "What're you up to, young man?" he asked Remy convivially. "Givin' your daddy gray hairs?"

"He'll be bald when I'm done," Remy said.

"I seen you already done a number on your brother Henri, there," Dan said.

"Show me a trick, Mr. Dan?" Remy asked and pointed at Dan's coat pocket where he always kept a deck of cards.

Dan grinned and removed the deck as The Witness muttered to himself.

"Watch now," Dan said and showed Remy the top of the deck with the red Bicycle pattern. He inverted the deck to reveal the Ace of Spades at the bottom. He tapped the Ace with the forefinger of his left hand. Holding the deck in his right hand, he neatly cut the deck in half with his index and middle fingers and moved the bottom half of the deck onto the top with his ring and pinky, shuffling the cards' order. His ring finger flicked and a card jumped from the deck as if tugged by a string to land in Dan's opposite hand. Dan turned the card around to reveal the Ace of Spades once again.

Remy grinned and took the offered card from Dan's hand.

"That one's called a 'false cut.' It makes it look like the Ace is shuffled when you've got your ring finger on it the entire time. You want to give it a go?" Dan asked and held out the rest of the deck.

Remy held the cards in his right, but couldn't make the cut with only one hand. "My hands are too small," he said with a frown. He handed the deck back to Dan.

"You're overdue for a growth spurt," Dan told him and for a moment he stared at the cards fanned in his hands. He gave a little frown and shook his head, then neatly folded the cards back into his pocket. "Bit of a late bloomer, hey?"

Remy cringed. He hated that term with a passion. "I can do this," Remy said, and threw the Ace he still held in his hand. It winged through the air over The Witness' head where it lodged by its corner into a cork-board. The Witness, distracted from his project, glanced at Remy with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, that's pretty good Remy," Dan said.

"Don't you have someplace y'ought t'be?" The Witness asked Dan. "Like gamblin' away de rent you collect from your honest, hard-workin' tenants?"

"You tryin' t'make me feel bad? It ain't gonna work. Lucky for me, I ain't got no honest tenants," Dan said and tucked his folded newspaper under his arm.

"You intend on payin' for that paper?" The Witness asked.

"Remy, it sho' is kind a'you t'come look in on this old goat," Dan continued, ignoring The Witness entirely. "You be good. Well. Be good enough."

"'Bye, Mr. Dan," Remy said as Dan walked through the front door, setting the bells ringing again.

Remy turned back to The Witness and walked over to the counter. There were tools and screws and wires and electronic components strewn all across the countertop. A large oblong shell, looking like an enormous bowl of a spoon, sat cradled in a towel. Inside the bowl were more mechanical bits. The Witness was twisting two pieces of wire together, holding them nearsightedly up to his face. There was another half to the shell which sat on the counter as well. Remy picked it up and regarded his distorted reflection in its shiny surface.

"What is dis?" he asked.

"A bauble," The Witness said absently.

"It looks like a big shiny Easter egg," Remy said, turning the shell over to look at the concave interior.

"Put that down," The Witness said as he worked on the other half of the egg. "De last thing I want is for you t'cause some kinda temporal rift on account of your taffy-covered paws muckin' up de machinery."

"Temporal–wha...?" The shell made a hollow sound as Remy set it back down on the counter. He left several smeared fingerprints on the shiny outer surface. Remy rubbed at one of them with the hem of his coat.

"Quit! Shoo!" The Witness said and flagged Remy away.

Remy stepped back from the counter and tucked his hands under his armpits. "Where'd you go when you disappear?" he asked.

" _Away_ from you, pest."

"When I asked where you went, it was like Mrs. Muños never heard of you b'fore. Dan plumb forgot you even existed. How'd you do it? Hypnosis?" Remy continued.

"No Svengali, me," The Witness answered and picked up the half of the egg Remy had touched.

"Well, what are you then?" Remy finally asked, exasperated.

"A fly in de ointment," The Witness said with a grin and placed one half of the egg over top of the other.

Remy sighed, defeated. There was a stool under the window which he dragged over to the counter. He clambered onto it and sat facing The Witness.

"Make yourself comfortable, why don't you," The Witness said wryly.

"Something weird happened to me," Remy told him.

"Do tell," The Witness said as he polished the egg with the towel.

"I think I traveled through time. On accident," Remy said. He rubbed his palms on the knees of his jeans.

The Witness looked up at him. "Really?" he said doubtfully.

Remy nodded. "There was this light, coming from me. I felt like I was being pulled forward. I could see a bunch of...I dunno. Like threads or ropes. Pulling me forward, but in different directions. When I pulled back, I went back."

"Back? Back in time?"

"Yeah," Remy said, somewhat nervously. It sounded stupid now that he had said it aloud.

The Witness set his egg upright on the folded towel.

"It was only a minute or so," Remy continued. "And I saw my past self. Standing just in front of me like you are now."

"Hm," The Witness said.

"You don't believe me," Remy said. He added bitterly: "You're in good company. No one believes a word I say."

"I don't think you're lyin'," The Witness admitted. His hand rested on top of the egg. He tapped it with his finger thoughtfully. "But I don't think you're tellin' me de whole story."

Remy tried not to fidget in his seat. "Well, I was just thinking..."

"There's your problem," The Witness quipped.

Remy frowned at him. "I was thinking – that what if it were true? That I _could_ go through time, go back to de past."

"Yes?"

Remy poked the corner of the shoebox with a forefinger. "If I'd been a minute earlier, the bird might still be alive."

"And you think hoppin' about through time and space is worth it for some little bird?" The Witness asked.

"Well...no. But–."

"I already know where your mind is goin'," The Witness said.

"What if I could go back further than a few minutes? What if I could go back a few _months_?"

"And do what?"

"Change things. Make it so Etienne wasn't killed."

"You could."

Remy sat up straight. "Do you t'ink so?"

"You could go on and on thinkin' of ways you could go back and change things. Spend all your time livin' in your past."

"I could make it right," Remy said, warming to the subject.

"Who's t'say what's right?" The Witness asked. "You? You're just a pup. There are some things that can't be changed."

Remy glared. "I got these powers for a reason," he said hotly.

"You t'ink so? Not by some miracle, luck, or chance then? Mebbe it's fate. Y'are _Le Diable Blanc_ after all, enh?"

"I'm – I'm a mutant, not a devil," he contested.

The Witness smiled slyly. "That'll play well 'round dese parts, I'm sho'. _Chèr_ , better t'be a live devil than a dead mutie. Trust me."

Remy pulled off his sunglasses and threw them onto the counter. "I don't trust you! You're some, some kinda – I don't even know what!" He hopped down from the stool to stand.

"Best t'keep 'em guessing," The Witness said mostly to himself. "A good disguise, the not-knowing." He released his hold on the egg and for a moment it sat balanced on its end on the counter. Then in a crackling flash of blue light it disappeared.**

Remy blinked in surprise at the space where the egg once stood. "Wha–! Where'd it go?"

The Witness scratched his thumbnail across his forehead. "Hm. More importantly, 'when' did it go? Ah well, I'm sure it'll turn up. Mebbe in de right place at de right time. I like t'leave some things up t'chance. Makes it more exciting that way."

Remy shook his head with incomprehension. "This was a waste of time," he said flatly.

"Mn, yes," The Witness said and then suddenly pulled open a drawer behind the counter. "Speaking of time..." He began searching the contents of the drawer with a great amount of rattling and shuffling.

The Witness retrieved something from the drawer. Remy stepped back as The Witness extended his arm towards him.

"What is it?" Remy asked warily.

The object dropped from The Witness' fingers to hang on a long gold chain. The object on the end rocked slowly back and forth like a pendulum. Slowly, Remy reached out and took the dangling pocket watch from The Witness' hand. It was gold with a filigree design. The lid was slightly dented. Remy opened it to reveal the clock's mother-of-pearl face with small Roman numerals. The tiny exposed wheels and gears ticked out the seconds.

"Time," The Witness said. "You're going to want to keep track."

* * *

*Gambit Vol. 3 #7

** What is that thing? See Gambit Vol. 3 #10. It's not important to the story, really. Just that The Witness needs something to do with his hands.

kouyon – dummy

zut – dang it!

viejo – old man


	9. Number Five

**Sinister's London, Undiscovered Location**

**The Past, Ten Weeks Ago**

Awareness came slowly as her immediate surroundings blearily came into focus. She concentrated on the plate set before her. It was a shallow bowl, half-full of a watery, gruel-like substance. Her hand rested on the tabletop beside her plate, her fingertips on the handle of a tarnished silver spoon. She blinked slowly at the vignette before her: chipped white china plate, spotted spoon, stained linen napkin. The rest existed in a sort of fog. Except for his voice. There was always that, his voice droning on in the background, filling the empty spaces of her mind. She would follow the commands he issued, accept his truths, his vision; a truth she believed, a vision she saw. Until the moment she lifted the spoon bearing its delivery of milk-gray gruel to her lips.

Her mouth remained steadfastly closed, lips pressed together. Her throat constricted, her stomach revolted.

"Sacrifices, in times such as these, must be made," he was saying. "Why, I recall a time during the war–," here he paused to sip from a glass of wine, "when a man would be fined for eating more than two courses during luncheon. As if the sight of a woman in bloomers weren't enough to put one off his meal. Ghastly times."

With a slight tremor in her hand, she set the spoon back into the bowl. She drew a deep breath, hoping to settle her stomach. She could hear the soft clink of metal on porcelain, the gentle tap of a glass being set onto the tabletop. The others were eating, unaware of the sudden onset of nausea she was experiencing. She blinked rapidly, hoping to clear the lingering fogginess from her vision.

"My dear, are you not hungry?" he asked politely.

With some reluctance, she turned her head to look at him. He was seated at the head of the table, his face a perfect pale mask of contrived sincerity. Contrary to his expression and tone of voice, his dark red eyes appeared to be pleased, perhaps amused, at her discomfort.

"We mustn't waste," he continued pompously and gestured at her plate. She noted that unlike her own meal, his food had not been rationed. Even as he looked at her, the butler replaced his soup with the fish course. He selected the appropriate fork from beside his plate and held it in one elegant, long-fingered hand.

"I am unwell," she told him and placed her trembling hands in her lap.

The other three at the table turned to regard her with curiosity, then looked at one another in confusion. They were a trio of red-haired birds, crooning to one another in a show of concern.

He considered her a moment. "Are you?" he said finally. "Perhaps then you should consult with the physician."

"No," she answered quickly and perhaps with too much force. "No," she repeated softly. "I–I just need some rest. If you'll excuse me."

She stood just a fraction of a moment before he gave his consent. She disguised her urgency by smoothing her hands down her skirts. She declined her head to him respectfully before stepping back from her chair.

"My dear," he said to her. "You are not yourself."

"My apologies...my–my...sire," she replied demurely and swallowed the bitter taste of bile building at the back of her throat.

He waved dismissively at her. "Do get some rest, then."

She slowly turned, feeling his gaze on her back as she began to walk from the room. Vaguely, she saw the three others turn their heads to follow her progress towards the large double doors to the dining hall. A manservant opened one of the doors to allow her to pass into the hall. She continued her slow, mincing strides down the carpeted hall until the door closed behind her. She turned and put her hand to the wood-paneled wall, then sagged against it as she gasped. She leaned her head against the wall and struggled to control her breathing. Somewhere down the darkened hall, a grandfather clock ticked out the seconds.

After a few moments she straightened and made her way towards her chamber. She put her gloved hand to the latch and pushed the door open. Inside, her room was dark save for the soft orange glow of a banked fire in the grate. She stumbled over to her bed and fell onto the mattress. She clutched at her belly, which cramped suddenly. She moaned and pressed her face into the bed linens. The bedclothes were musty and damp. Everything here, so far below the earth's surface, was damp. She could not know for how long she had failed to recognize it, how long she had been oblivious to the darkness around her.

She felt both hot and cold at once. She tore at the fastenings at the back of her dress, heard several stitches pop as she pulled her arms free of the sleeves. She was left in her undergarments. There was a moment spent looking at all the ribbons and yards of cotton fabric before she began to pull at those as well. One slipper was kicked from a stockinged foot. Once she had freed herself from most of the ridiculous trappings of Victorian garb, she fell back into the bed, exhausted. She closed her eyes.

Where was she? How long had she been here? Why was she here?

_If the engines break, half our species will assume a female form so we can continue to reproduce while we get the engines back to full steam, he had said._ * The engines being the machines that once populated Sinister's London with clones of himself. But now that the engines had all been destroyed...

She gasped and clutched her arms around her middle, curling up in the center of the four-poster bed. Even through the thick wooden door, she could still make out the ticking of the clock. She concentrated on the sound until the pain passed. Eventually, she fell asleep.

When she woke, it was morning. She could tell because the room was marginally lighter. The light beyond the window was pale pearly gray, filtered through the dense sooty fog that hung in the streets outside. The cavern that served as their sky dripped a constant, gritty rain. She sat up slowly. The fire had burned itself out. She realized she was bleeding from between her legs. She realized she could feel. What she felt was relieved.

~ oOo ~

She was called Five though there were only four of them now. Number Four had died, and Five had felt that too. Four was perhaps the best of them, an altruist, braver than the other four. She had died so that the others could escape as the Phoenix Force had burned their former home. Number One was the leader, though they had been arbitrarily numbered from the start. But One took it upon herself to be the den mother. When the soft knock came at her door, Five knew it was One who had come to visit.

"Sister...," One said as she opened the door a fraction. Her pale face appeared in the opening. "Are we well?"

Five sat up and pulled the bed coverings over her nakedness. It took her a moment to form a response. "We're...better, thank you."

One entered the room, bearing a breakfast tray in her hands. There was a slice of dry toast on a plate and a cup of tea set on the tray. Five resented One's simpering smile and the practiced gesture of kindness. One's eyes took in Five's appearance. Five saw the flicker of disapproval in One's gaze. One enjoyed her role as mother hen, not because she was particularly nurturing, but that it gave her a feeling of control and superiority over the remaining three.

"A bit of breakfast?" One asked and set the tray upon Five's bedside table. One then raised her hand to the bell pull beside Five's bed. "Shall we ring for the doctor?"

It was all Five could do to stop herself from knocking One's hand aside. Instead she said: "We are indecent. Please bring a dressing gown."

One's mouth crimped with displeasure. She did not like to be issued commands. She forced her face back into its usual pleasant blandness. "Of course."

As One glided over to the garderobe, Five picked up the teacup from the tray and sipped from it. Her nose wrinkled. Earl Grey, she did not care for it. One returned with a dressing gown and helped Five into it.

"We must eat," One told Five, satisfied to be the one in control again. "We'll feel better then. When we are finished with breakfast, join us in the sitting room."

Five pulled the neck of her gown closed and nodded her affirmation, though she wanted nothing but to continue to lay in bed. One slipped from the room and closed the door with a gentle click. Five picked up her toast from the tray and walked to the window. The rippled glass gave her a murky view of the world outside. Below was the rear of the manor, where there was a small square courtyard surrounded by high walls. It was the most unattractive view from any of the rooms, but as she was Number Five, she had chosen her living quarters last after the better options were taken. The courtyard was where the kitchen and household help mingled. There was a stable, or what would have been a stable if there were any horses. Instead, the stable housed a Wolseley Limousine that His Majesty used to survey his much-diminished kingdom.

Down in the courtyard, the limousine driver appeared to be in agitated conversation with the butler. Five pressed her face closer to the glass to peer down at the scene below. From the emotions she could glean from the pair, she could sense that the driver was irritated and perhaps jealous. The butler's emotions mirrored the driver's, however, he was also resolute. He was devoted to his master, Sinister Prime, and would not voice his qualms in whatever matter had upset the driver. Five was curious. What would upset two of His Majesty's closest servants? She dare not pry further for fear of detection. She wanted to keep her newfound thoughts and feelings closely guarded.

Five drew away from the window and moved to her vanity. She sat on the padded stool in front of the mirror. She watched her reflection as she slowly chewed on the bite of toast. She forced herself to swallow, then set the toast aside. Five plucked out the pins in her hair that she had forgotten to remove the night before. Her hair spilled down her back like a long red flag. Five picked up the silver-backed hairbrush and pulled it through her hair. With her hair brushed out, she sat silently for a few moments. Her eyes strayed back to the window. On her vanity was a small chinoiserie box. Her hand moved almost of its own accord to the box and lifted the lid. Five didn't realize the small pair of scissors was in her hand until she turned back to the mirror. It was almost as if her reflection had taken on a life of its own. Her reflection's face was a hard mask of anger, her green eyes flashed with dangerous defiance. Five felt her left hand rise to the nape of her neck. Her fingers pulled forward a small lock of hair. The scissors in her right hand moved towards her scalp. There was a soft slithery sound of metal on metal as the scissors closed down on the lock of hair. Five found herself wrapping the long lock of red hair around her left fingers. Her hair had never been cut before. She was shocked at her own audacity, but also thrilled with her small act.

She trembled slightly as she rose and tossed her hair clipping into the fireplace. Her right hand continued to open and close the pair of scissors. Five retrieved her garments from where she had cast them onto the ground. She would have to dress herself. Before today, it had been easy to choose what to wear. An unspoken consensus between the four remaining clones would be reached and they all would appear before His Majesty for inspection like perfectly matched dolls. Today, Five had closed herself off from the other three. There would be no agreement. Five dropped the dress where it lay on the floor in a heap of silk and crinoline.

She saw that her bed linens were stained with blood. Eventually, a servant would come to her chamber and tend to the fire, then change her sheets. She'd be found out. Five pulled the sheets from the bed and crumpled them into a ball. She opened her chamber door and peered out into the hallway. It was empty. Stealing silently from the room, she crept down the hall to Two's living quarters. Five opened the door. By now, One, Two, and Three would be in the morning room doing some vapid activity as approved by His Majesty. Five stepped into Two's room and made towards the bed. She stripped the mattress and put her own soiled linens onto the bed in a heap. Five went to the wardrobe and opened the doors. She saw which dress had been taken from its place; missing from the wardrobe was the cream-colored day gown.

_Yuck_ , she thought. It was a simple affair, a silk cream shift that made her complexion look positively awful. At least she wouldn't require assistance dressing this morning.

Five returned to her room with the sheets she had stolen from Two. Once one of the servants spotted the blood, he would report it to the physician. Two would be the one to visit the physician today, not Five. Of the four of them, Two was the worst. She was power-hungry, vindictive, and jealous. She loathed One, needled Three, and scornfully envied Five. Five thought little of putting the dreadful physician's sights on Two to spare herself from an examination. Five could at least give herself a little more time to...to _what_?

_Escape_ , her mind whispered.

Five's hands began to shake uncontrollably. Her breath quickened. It made it more difficult than usual to dress herself. She forwent her undergarments and kicked them under the bed with a slippered foot. Five picked up the small handled kit that contained her embroidery supplies. Embroidery was one of the few activities that His Majesty approved for the four female clones he had remaining in his collection. Five opened the kit's lid to see her last piece of work. It was a circle of red roses, their vines and leaves intertwined to create a vignette. Inside the floral circle were the words stitched out in black: _Fuck This._

Five gasped. When had she made this? She hastily picked up her embroidery needle and picked out the stitches. Five used her thumbnail to smooth down the holes left in the fabric. She would have to be more careful. She would have to be mindful to mimic her sisters' actions lest her defiant thoughts be discovered. Five straightened and picked up her kit. She would have to join her sisters in the morning room if she didn't want to raise suspicion.

As she closed the bedroom door behind her, Five heard the sound of a voice from the rooms downstairs. It was his voice, as usual. She recognized the superior cadence of his tone while at lecture. He was monologuing to an audience. The audience supplied the questions where appropriate, so that His Majesty could continue his diatribe. Five walked soundlessly down the corridor towards the ticking grandfather clock. She turned to face the marble staircase that descended to the tiled floor below. With her hand on the banister, she tiptoed down the stairs. His Majesty and his attendants were in the library, which was partitioned off from the main hall by an ornate wooden screen. Five positioned herself behind it to listen. Her eye peered through the crack between two of the panels.

"His Majesty intends on keeping this...this one?" one of the attendants inquired politely. It was the butler attempting to phrase his doubts as courteously as possible.

"A royal court would not be complete without a fool," His Majesty said merrily. "And our resources are greatly diminished since our encounter with the Phoenix Force."

"However did this one survive?" His Majesty's footman asked. "The menagerie was destroyed entirely. The clones all spent as cannon fodder."

"This one appears to be defective," His Majesty said. "Well... _more_ defective than the others. As to its survival, that comes as no surprise. In the event of an apocalyptic catastrophe, I speculate that the few survivors would include cockroaches and this one."

Five leaned closer to the screen. She could not see who His Majesty was talking about. His Majesty's back was to her, blocking her view of the room. After the Phoenix Force's assault on Sinister's London, previously located under the earth in Alaska, most of His Majesty's assets had been destroyed.** All his equipment, his species, and all the clones he kept in his menagerie were burned. Little survived other than Sinister himself. Sinister always survived. Right now, he was supervising as his footman appeared to be straightening the cravat of the unseen clone.

"But what do you intend on _doing_ with it?" said the driver, who was decidedly less polite.

His Majesty seemed not at all bothered by his driver's outspokenness. In fact, he seemed amused. "I intend to keep it."

"As a pet?"

Sinister laughed. "Yes. My dear little poppet." He reached out and patted the clone's head. "Make no mistake. He has his uses."

Five felt her skin crawl and she gave an involuntary shudder.

"You see," Sinister continued, his arms raised to capture the clone's skull between his hands, "my predecessor failed to recognize the repercussions of altering this one's brain. The parietal lobe, here, on top of the head towards the back..." Sinister tilted the clone's head forward as if to peer straight through its skull and into its brain. "Develops a picture of the world we see around us. Spatial imagining...an understanding of three-dimensions. This one's mutation included a highly developed parietal lobe, one that could see not only in three-dimensions, but into the fourth."

"The fourth being time?" asked the footman.

"The fourth being time," Sinister continued as if the footman had not spoken. "Combined with his command over energy at the atomic level, he was able to traverse space and time at will. As well as understand the probability of his actions on affecting the future, and every possibility."

"He was?"

"An unforeseen complication, some inherent flaw, weakness, or injury left him unable to control his powers," Sinister said.

"And so my predecessor severed some connections between the parietal lobe and the frontal...this area," Sinister said and pointed. "The area responsible for planning, organizing, and understanding actions and consequences."

"So basically, he's an idiot," the driver said.

"You are correct, in part. Though I believe the term has fallen out of favor, I would label him an idiot _savant_. When the connections between the parietal and the left frontal lobe were severed, the loss of function in the planning circuits accelerated growth in the right frontal lobe. This area is credited with creativity, the ability to learn and accept new ideas and concepts. The brain compensated for its loss by developing new skills allowing it to cope." While Sinister spoke, he began to walk and gesticulate. He passed by the screen where Five was hidden.

"My resources may be limited, but all is not lost. Merely misplaced. The research conducted those years ago by my predecessor and his treacherous companion known at the Black Womb was appropriated by SHIELD.*** The equipment, the careful note-taking, the biological samples, all is safely stored...we can rebuild from our very foundation," Sinister said grandly and swept out his arms. "All we need to do is retrieve it."

"And you think this one capable?" the butler asked dubiously.

Sinister stepped aside, giving Five full view of the library and its occupants. "In such difficult times, we mustn't waste...," His Majesty, the Sinister Prime said. "We must take advantage of every opportunity. When we are in possession of a thief, we make use of it." Sinister held his clone firmly by its chin. "Won't we, Poppet?" he asked the clone.

The clone's eyes were trained on his master, a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. Those black and red eyes strayed to where Five hid, his gaze meeting her own through the crack in the screen. Five's heart leapt and she gasped. The clone's grin broadened.

The driver muttered: "Our future hinges on this idiot." A moment later, the driver was dead.

"At the very least I'll need a new driver," Sinister Prime said and set the driver's hat upon the clone's head. "There now, LeBeau, don't you look smart?"

* * *

*Uncanny X-Men Vol. II #14

**Uncanny X-Men Vol. II #17

***New X-Men Vol. II #41/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this long before Umbrella Academy, Number Five is my character! They stole my name!


	10. Hell To Pay

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Ten Weeks Ago**

She often had the television tuned to the twenty-four hour news station. The incessantly regurgitated news updates and the political pundits were of no interest to her. It was the DOW and NASDAQ ticker crawling along the bottom of the screen that held her attention. The rest was just background noise and usually ignored. That changed the day the Phoenix Force rained balls of flame from the heavens. The city of Boston had sustained some damage, but not like New York, London, Wakanda, or San Francisco. Even as the sights and sounds of terror could be seen from the office window of her brownstone home, she kept her eyes trained on the television screen. Her sudden interest in world news had nothing to do with the terrifying events of that day. In fact, she had only turned the television on to discover why Wall Street was closed. This was a rare event that had only happened twice in her memory; the first time having occurred after the events of 9/11, the second and most recent due to the superstorm that had left New York without power.

She watched reports of devastation that left most of the world's infrastructure in ruin. There would be no trades made today, no exchange of stock, no money to be made. There was nothing to do but sit and watch. So she sat on the edge of her mattress staring at the television screen, the remote held limply in her hand, watching the events unfold with the same vague sense of helplessness that she felt for the last three decades of her life.

That was when she saw him. The hand that held the remote came up so quickly, the device nearly launched itself from her fingertips. She hastily stabbed the pause button and rewound the live feed on her DVR. Her hands shook as she did this, her eyes not believing what they had seen. Seeing the flash of images on the screen a second time, she paused the feed again. The caption at the bottom of the screen said the footage was from Paris, France. The images in the background showed the Paris skyline aflame. But it was the man captured in the foreground that had claimed her attention. It was the briefest of clips and she carefully used the forward and back buttons on the remote to move frame by frame, so she could witness every instance of his sudden and remarkable appearance on the television screen.

She felt all at once a sensation of disbelief, of surprise, and of fear. It was _impossible_ that he was alive, and yet there he was, she was certain of it. Could there be another person on the planet who had eyes like that, who looked so strikingly familiar to her as the man on the screen? She lost track of how long she sat before the television, clicking back and forth between frames of his first spontaneous appearance to his last and equally quick disappearance. She thought he might have been smiling as he spun before the camera, completely oblivious to his audience as he sent a missile burning bright with some kind of energy into the air. The missile, which looked very much like a playing card, detonated a descending fireball into harmless fragments. He then leapt from the rooftop and was gone. She allowed the clip to play at normal speed; it couldn't have been more than five or six seconds of footage. The reporter's voice came to her then.

_...The vigilante team of mutants known as the X-Men, seen battling one another..._

She stood and walked to her laptop where it sat on her desk. She lifted the lid and entered her username and passcode. She rested her fingers lightly on the desktop to keep them from trembling. She knew of the X-Men, but had paid little attention to the affairs of superheroes. A basic search in her web-browser turned up numerous news articles which she scanned for further information or perhaps an image of the man she had seen on television. She knew that the X-Men resided in San Francisco, on an island named Utopia, but as the news reports came in, it seemed that Utopia had been destroyed. Not far down the list of search results she encountered the name of a school: The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning located in Salem Center, New York.

The link took her to a webpage of what one could assume was an elite preparatory school, except that the entire staff and student body seemed to be composed of mutants. There was an admissions page, information about the campus, and a calendar of events. She clicked on the tab marked "Faculty & Staff." The page began with a headshot of the Headmistress of the School, Katherine Anne Pryde and the Headmaster, James L. Howlett. The remainder of the staff was listed alphabetically. She had only passed Robert Drake, Rachel Grey, and Samuel Guthrie when she found Remy LeBeau. She stared at the small image that accompanied his name. The face wore the same close-lipped grin as the man she had seen on the news report.

Now she'd seen his face and had a name. She sat transfixed for a moment, possessed with the thought that she was glad he'd been taken in by a French family. It wasn't too much to assume that he had perhaps been raised Catholic as well. He was also a teacher; that must mean he was reasonably intelligent and liked children. She took some small consolation in that. Then followed the feeling of terrible loss, the twenty, no, nearly _thirty_ years of separation she'd experienced, of irretrievable time stolen from her. Then came the anger.

He had been lying to her all this time, letting her believe their son was dead.

~ oOo ~

Helen Moreux hadn't yet completed her Political Science degree at Tulane University when she was accepted as an intern for the senator's re-election campaign. She was credited with excellent writing and organizational skills, was well-spoken and a spirited debater, as well as being a very good student. She never missed deadlines and was never late to class. That all seemed to change after she met the senator and had the bad luck to fall in love with him entirely.

She was nineteen when she first met Senator DesJarlais, Republican, State of Louisiana. Though she had been campaigning for him for the last six months, making phone calls, training volunteers, canvassing neighborhoods, and organizing fund-raising events, she hadn't formally been introduced to DesJarlais until the night of his re-election. He was warmly thanking each member of his staff with a handshake or hug. She thought him incredibly handsome, though he was quite a bit older than she was. He was tall, with distinguished Gallic features, olive complexion, and a great head of hair that had only just begun to turn gray at the temples. He was even more charming in person than he was on screen, with his softly accented voice and his dark brown eyes. To hear him speak was to have your vote. His political opponent called him DesJarlais le Beau Parleur; "The Smooth Talker," as it seemed that was the only thing he did.

Helen was just one of the many eager young interns dressed in dark suits, with red ties or flag lapel pins. Still, it felt special when the Senator took her hand in his and smiled into her eyes while thanking her for her hard work and dedication. She had helped organize the re-election celebration party. She had chosen the decorations, the caterers, and the band. She knew what was being served, the food and drink. When he passed her a champagne flute, she demurred. She wasn't old enough to drink.

"My apologies," he said with surprise. "It's only you seem so mature for someone so young."

She felt herself blush and she looked away from his penetrating gaze. He briefly squeezed her shoulder before he moved on to the next intern hoping to bask in the glow of DesJarlais' attention.

Later, she found herself on the back veranda overlooking the country club grounds where the party was being held. She felt anxious as she looked over the partygoers from the balcony. Was the food good, was there enough of it? Was the music appropriate? Were people enjoying themselves? Given time to think, she reexamined her every decision for its most minute flaws. She found it difficult to enjoy herself. Her head ached and she pulled her brown hair loose from its chignon, letting it fall around her shoulders. It was November and the weather was pleasant and mild. Still, she put her arms around herself and shrugged into her jacket.

To her increasing nervousness, DesJarlais appeared, slipping through the glass French doors to join her on the veranda. He smiled at her and her heart fluttered.

"I understand it's you I should be thanking for this celebration," he said. He offered her the glass he held in his hand. "You deserve a bit of a reward. I won't tell if you don't."

She gave a forced girlish giggle which she instantly regretted, and took the champagne from his hand to cover up her embarrassment. "I can keep a secret," she said and was glad it was too dark for him to see her flushed face.

Helen searched her mind for something polite to say. "I'm sorry your wife couldn't make it. I hope she feels better soon."

DesJarlais looked remorseful. "Lynn thought it would be best to stay at home. These kinds of events...well, she tires easily."

Helen nodded her understanding. His wife had long been ill with recurring instances of cancer. Helen had only seen Lynn in images of the DesJarlais family shown on the campaign ads. The senator stood on a platform of strong, traditional family values and was pro-life. He and Lynn had two children, girls, both adopted and as different as two children could possibly be. Lynn herself was skeletally thin, but immaculately dressed and composed. She was from old money and a politically connected family.

"I had hoped to hold the event closer to your home in Lafayette, so she might have been able to come," Helen told him.

"That is very considerate of you," he replied.

At a loss and feeling flustered under his gaze Helen said: "I – I don't want to keep you from your guests. Congratulations, Mr. Senator."

"Please, call me Ray," he said and took her hand. "And you're Helen. My campaign manager speaks very highly of you." He surprised her by genteelly kissing the back of her hand. She felt like a real southern belle being courted by a beau. Helen immediately squelched the thought.

"Ray," she repeated. "I'm flattered. Thank you."

He straightened but still held her hand. "I'm impressed by you. I could really use someone with your talents with me in Washington."

Helen glanced away and put the champagne flute to her lips. She took a nervous sip.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked her.

She shook her head no and then in an effort to seem more adult, asked if he minded offering her a cigarette as well.

Helen didn't finish her degree, much to her parents' dismay. She felt that she could finish her bachelor's any time, but the offer to go to Washington D.C., to live what she had learned, was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She would be the professional assistant to the Senator. It opened up possibilities she hadn't considered before. Helen believed she would someday work for a not-for-profit, lobbying politicians for support and funding for the Urban Institute. Now she could potentially serve as a member of a senator's staff. Who knew where that would lead?

~ oOo ~

In the months that followed, Helen was never far from Honoré DesJarlais' side. His wife remained home in Lafayette, Louisiana with their two daughters. Helen lived in a nicely appointed apartment in Arlington, Virginia. Ray became a frequent visitor.

Helen was in love with him, and as he often told her, he loved her as well. But in mid-March, Ray went home to his wife. When he was away, it gave Helen time to think and consider her situation. She was remorseful. She hated disappointing her parents and felt guilty for not finishing the degree she'd come so close to achieving. Worse, she was an adulterer, the Senator's mistress. But then Ray came back, and when they were together she never believed for a moment that he cared for anyone other than her. The next time he returned home to Louisiana, Helen began concocting scenarios where she and Ray could be together forever, out in public. Lynn was a sickly woman. Perhaps she would pass away from her dreadful disease and end her suffering. Helen was ashamed to have entertained the thought. Ray would never divorce Lynn. Though other politicians' careers survived through such affairs, Ray's career was based on making as few waves as possible while subtly acquiring connections and allies in Congress. He wouldn't bring undue attention to himself with scandal.

Helen could give Ray something his wife Lynn, with all her money, business connections, and political friends, could not: a baby. It was a desperate act. She pretended to continue taking her birth control pills while hoping to get pregnant. She told herself it was out of love for him. Even after she discovered her pregnancy, she kept it secret. Helen went home to Louisiana and waited months before telling Ray about the baby. By the regulations Honoré helped to enforce in his own home state, it would be too late for her to get an abortion. Besides, there were few clinics left, especially in the rural area outside of New Orleans where she lived with her parents.

He was not pleased with the news, even when she told him the baby was a boy. Helen was terrified Honoré would leave her then, so in an act of panic, she threatened to tell his wife about their affair. Ray became instantly conciliatory after that. He went back to his loving ways, doting on her, buying gifts for the baby and sending money for her medical bills. Helen began to believe everything would turn out all right.

Helen was alone at the hospital when her baby was born. She was in the largest medical facility in New Orleans, Big Charity, an exceptionally busy hospital which often served the impoverished. She was one of many women giving birth that day, her son would be one of nearly two dozen infants. Helen intended on naming her boy Grant. It was a strange name to choose for a southerner, but it wasn't the Union commander she was thinking of. She was thinking 'grant' in the form of giving, of granting a pardon, or a wish. She was thinking you could also take something for granted.

The moment Grant was born, she waited to hear his cry, then continued to wait. The seconds seemed to stretch on for eons. Her baby wasn't breathing. The doctor and nurses rushed to suction fluid from his nose and mouth. At last, she heard him give a coughing cry, and her infant was placed against her bare breast. His crying stopped instantly. His skin turned from blue to pink as she held him, and she was grateful he was alive. She moved him to gaze into his eyes, hoping to see vestiges of the father's face in her son's features. What she saw was that her child's eyes were unusually dark, and glowed like red coals.

There was much commotion over the baby's appearance. Helen continued to stare into his face with awe. The nurse took her child and he was spirited away for examination. Helen lay for hours on the hospital bed waiting for Grant to be returned. But she never saw her baby again. Instead, Honoré appeared to tell her that the baby had died. He gave her documents to sign, granting her son's body to science to ensure that no other child would suffer from the same condition. Helen was stunned into submission.

She scrutinized her actions for clues as to why she had so horribly failed her infant son. Was it the cigarettes she now smoked regularly? Was it the alcohol she imbibed? Perhaps it was her own evil actions, and this was some kind of divine punishment. She was inconsolable. She no longer cared if Honoré would ever love her as much as she loved him. He surprised her by continuing their relationship. He too, seemed broken-hearted and contrite. Honoré begged for her forgiveness, and too weak-willed to do anything else, she remained by his side.

~ oOo ~

Boston, Massachusetts

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago

Helen no longer served as Ray's personal assistant. She remained at the home he bought for her in Boston, trading stocks by day. She was regularly supplied with trading tips through e-mail which she checked every twenty minutes. Messages were sent through an account she shared with Ray, kept in the drafts folder and never actually sent so they were not leaving any evidence of their actions. Honoré served on the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations of the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission. He had connections within the DOJ, FBI, CIA, and SHIELD. Often he would hear of one investigation or another, and Helen would buy, sell, or hold depending on the situation.

Today's message re: NABC, the North American Banking Corporation, inferred an impending investigation into unreported money filtering to terrorist organizations. Being the sixth largest bank in the world, it stood to pay billions of dollars in fines just for allegations of money laundering. Helen chose to ignore the message.

It had been nearly a month since she had seen her son Grant Moreux, now known as Remy LeBeau, appear on television. She spent the days composing her thoughts. Helen was always very organized. Today she would make two phone calls. The first to her son, her words carefully chosen in the hope of making a connection with the child she lost twenty-six years ago. The second would be to a close family friend, a judge in New Orleans, who knew a man who might know a man who could be paid to end another man's life.

Helen thought of all the years that had been stolen from her while she waited for her love to be reciprocated. The years that she could have spent watching her child grow up. Helen would demand recompense for the years she had lost. She would see Honoré DesJarlais pay with his life.


	11. Doing Time

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, Eleven Years Ago**

"I don't think you understand that your actions come with serious consequences," Jean-Luc told his son gravely. "What on earth were you thinking?"

Remy was thinking that telling the truth wouldn't be to his benefit. Instead, Remy shrugged his shoulders, palms held out, with a clueless expression on his face.

Jean-Luc exhaled and smoothed a hand over his hair in an attempt to marshal his frustration. "I'm giving you too much credit assuming you were _thinking at all_! Stealing a mail truck. Of all the ridiculous–! What were you going t'do with a mail truck?"

"I wanted t'know how fast it'd go," Remy said. "De answer is: not very." That was a complete fabrication. The truth was that he hadn't intended on stealing the truck. Remy had climbed into the back of the truck to investigate the mail bags inside. He had been in an affluent neighborhood and he had hoped of scoring some personal identification information to sell. He had been surprised by the mail carrier, and things got complicated from there. Remy hoped that confessing to a childish prank might gain more leniency than admission to committing postal felony.

"This is not a joke, Remy. If you're convicted, there are serious repercussions for what you've done! You had best pray for a judge we can... _negotiate_ with."

Jean-Luc meant to bribe the judge with money they seemed to always lack. Remy had never seen his father so angry before. It gave him a sort of thrill to know the kind of reaction he could elicit from his typically stoic father. They were in Jean-Luc's office. Remy stood facing his father. Jean-Luc was half-seated on the edge of his desk, looking as if he might begin pulling his own hair out.

"This ends now," Jean-Luc finally decreed. "I am done with your lying. Your running off to god-knows-where. And this!" Jean-Luc turned and picked up a pair of notebooks from his desk. "What do you have to say about this?"

Remy stared at the notebooks Jean-Luc extended towards him; the blue notebooks they used for their lessons. Jean-Luc had the front covers of each book folded back to reveal the writing inside. One book contained Remy's own barely-legible scrawl, the other was his cousin's mechanically neat penmanship. They both had the same scores. "Uhm. So it looks like I got high marks dis time," he said.

Jean-Luc tossed the notebooks back onto his desktop. "You copied off your cousin!"

"Mebbe he copied offa me?" Remy suggested.

"That's enough," Jean-Luc said, cutting his hand through the air. "You can consider yourself grounded."

Remy didn't mean to laugh, but the single outburst of disbelief escaped his lips before he realized it. A look of intense fury flashed across Jean-Luc's face and Remy saw his father's hand twitch. Remy caught the motion from the corner of his eye and almost took a step back. He hadn't been looking at Jean-Luc at all until this moment, but staring off to a place over his father's shoulder. Now he met his father's stern gaze.

_Go ahead, hit me,_ Remy thought a challenge. _You know you want to._

Jean-Luc took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest. "You will not leave this house without my express permission. You will not go wandering about town on your own. You will sit in this office with me every night and work on your lessons."

Remy stared incredulously at Jean-Luc. "For how long?" he asked, his voice raising.

"For as long as I see fit," Jean-Luc snapped. "Certainly until your court date, and then we'll see what de judge decides t'do with you."

"That's a month away!" Remy exclaimed.

"And in the meantime, you can go with your Tante Mattie to de hospital on de weekends. A little community service may help your credibility," Jean-Luc added.

"I will _not_!" Remy said, his arms stiff at his sides.

"You don't get a say!" Jean-Luc answered back. "I won't babysit you every waking moment of de day, but I will see you doing something useful! You can spend your time helping those less fortunate than yourself."

" _Fortunate_? Oh, right! I forgot how good I got it here," Remy spat with cruel irony. "Like how _fortunate_ it was that I should just happen to pick de pocket of New Orleans' own King of Thieves. What are de odds? And that he should take me in out of de kindness of his own heart. I should be thankin' my lucky stars!"

"Remy–," Jean-Luc said his name as a warning.

"How _fortunate_ for me I should run inta a girl who just happened t'be de Assassins' Guild leader's daughter! How _fortunate_ we should get on so well, what with you decidin' to marry us off. What an amazing coincidence! I sure do got good luck, don't I?" Remy could feel his heart racing in his chest. A rush of adrenaline made him feel lightheaded.

"All right, that's enough," Jean-Luc suddenly seemed tired.

"You must think I'm pretty stupid!" Remy hissed.

"That's not –," Jean-Luc began.

Remy cut him off, refusing to hear his father's rebuttal or confirmation that Remy's suspicions were true. "You should've left me on de streets where you found me!" Remy shouted and to his embarrassment he heard his voice crack. "I was doing fine _on my own_! I don't need you!"

Jean-Luc took a step towards him and Remy backed away. In a fury, he turned towards the door to his father's study and shouted: "Stay away from me! I hate you!"

Remy regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, but he wanted to hold on to his feeling of righteous anger a while longer. It was better than feeling used and betrayed. He continued out of Jean-Luc's office and down the hall to his room. He slammed the door to his room shut behind him and stalked to the small desk. Remy picked up his Geometry book, hauled open the single window in his room, and threw the book into the yard where it exploded.

"What was that supposed to accomplish?" Remy heard a voice ask.

With a yelp of surprise, Remy stumbled back into his dresser. All the junk that had accumulated on the dresser top rattled and tumbled onto the floor. Remy stared across the room to see the mirror image of himself. Only it wasn't a mirror's reflection, but an actual person. He felt his jaw drop open in surprise.

"Remy!" Jean-Luc's voice called from behind the closed door. "Are you–?"

"Go away!" Remy's other self cried.

Remy could hear his heart thundering in his ears. He clung to the dresser to keep himself from falling. He looked from his doppelgänger to the closed door. He saw the doorknob begin to turn. "Go away!" Remy repeated. "Stay out of my room!"

His other self nodded and grinned. The door remained closed.

After several moments of silence, Remy tentatively asked: "Is he gone?"

The other Remy pushed away from the wall he was leaning against and walked to the door. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened. "He's gone," he finally concluded.

" _Dieu_ ," Remy said, staring at his twin. "Who–who are you?"

The other Remy rolled his eyes. "I'm you, _le sot_. Well, you, only slightly more older and slightly less stupid."

"So...so, you're – from de future?" Remy stuttered.

The other Remy shrugged. "Like a few weeks from now future. Look, we're wearin' de same shirt still."

Remy looked down at his worn cotton Saints tee-shirt, then at his twin's. He experienced a passing moment of vertigo. "What are you...what am _I_ doin' here?"

"I got an idea," his twin said.

"Not usually a good thing," Remy replied. "So I _can_ time travel? I wasn't just imagining it?"

The twin was pulling a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. "That's right, we're not completely bonkers. Look, we're in big trouble here. Jean-Luc's gonna make good on his threats. We're under house arrest. We're never gonna get to New York at dis rate."

Remy found himself nodding. He had been combing the streets day and night, picking pockets, snatching purses, and breaking into abandoned homes to scavenge for scrap metal and things he could sell. At the same time, he was still going through the motions of the Rites of Passage; dutifully fulfilling the Guild requirements of his apprenticeship. On top of that were his lessons. He'd only cheated off of Emil not because he didn't know the schoolwork, but to gain himself some extra time.

The twin handed Remy the scrap of paper. "So I had dis idea. I wrote down all de times Jean-Luc checks in on me – us...and all de times Tante Mattie drags us along to Big Charity–."

"I don't _really_ have t'do that, do I?" Remy whined, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

His other self nodded gravely. "But listen, there's two of us now. One of us can be de good little boy, and de other–."

Remy looked at the list of dates and times he held in his hand. "And all de other times, we could be workin' together. We could do twice de work in half de time."

"I catch on fast," Remy's twin told himself.

Remy looked up from the paper into his own eyes. "Dis is so weird."

"I know. I didn't realize how stupid I look all de time," his future-self replied, giving his past-self a critical look. He pointed at Remy's face and said: "We have t'do something about that."

Remy scowled. "Do somethin' about _what_?"

"Your –our– face. It's plain as day what we're thinkin'."

"Seein' as how you've thought what I'm thinkin' already..."

"I'm serious," future-Remy said and crossed his thin arms. "We need to work on our Poker face."

Remy scrunched up his face and then relaxed his features. "How's dis?" he asked.

"You look like you just smelled a dog fart. How 'bout dis?" future-Remy put his hands over his face and tried to physically smooth out his features. He attempted a stern expression.

Remy tried not to smile at how ridiculous he looked. His future-self broke into a laugh, unable to maintain the serious expression for long. Self-consciously, they both raised a hand to hide their grins.

"There!" Remy said. "Just do that."

"What? Smile?"

"Yeah, that'll work," Remy pressed his lips together and grinned.

"That's more of a smirk," his future-self said.

"Dis better?" he asked, baring his braces-covered teeth in a grimace.

"Ugh, no," his future-self raised a hand to block out the sight.

Remy folded the schedule and put it into his pocket. "I got a question for you, future-me."

"I already know what you're gonna ask."

"Well? Is it considered masturbation, or is it gay?"

"It'd be hard to explain, is what it'd be," his future-self replied. "And I don't think we can touch each other besides."

"How d'you figure?"

His future-self held out his hand with his palm out. "Go ahead, try."

Remy raised his arm likewise and attempted to press his palm to his twin's. There was a strange crackle of resistance, like a forcefield, preventing them from making contact.

"Whoa. It's like two magnets repellin' one another."

"I guess opposites attract," his future-self said.

Remy lowered his arm. "I guess we'll get passing marks in Physics."

"Not Geometry though," future-Remy shook his head sadly.

"Do you think dis is gonna work? Us teaming up?" Remy asked himself.

"Sure, what could go wrong?" his future-self replied. "And who else besides me can you really trust?"

"Nobody," Remy admitted reluctantly. "There's nobody else."

~ oOo ~

Remy got into an argument with his future-self, which probably wasn't the most auspicious beginning to their endeavor. The argument had to do with who did what; neither wanted to be the one to stay behind and do the schoolwork and chores. Remy had no intention of staying put, but his future-self contended that he'd already done the time and wasn't about to be kept prisoner in Jean-Luc's house a moment longer.

"Won't you be in trouble for running off?" Remy asked his future-self. "When Jean-Luc finds you gone in de future?"

"If we do dis right, then de future I come from doesn't happen," his future-self told him. "You'll be in New York by then. And besides, Jean-Luc checks in less and less de longer it seems I'm following his orders."

Remy consulted the schedule his future-self had given him. It was true, Jean-Luc's random visits tapered off after the first week. Remy conceded to his future-self, who slipped in and out of the house via the window. Remy would then pose himself in a display of teenage misery moments before Jean-Luc came to his bedroom door to check in on him. The first few times he stopped by Remy's bedroom, Jean-Luc was surprised to see Remy lying sprawled on his bed, slouched at his desk, or lounging on the floor. Jean-Luc would confirm that Remy was still in his room with a small nod, though the man was clearly perplexed at Remy's apparent obedience. Remy took pleasure in seeing his father's dumbfounded expression. Remy, in turn, would eye his father with blatant contempt.

"Dinner is in five minutes," Jean-Luc said after checking in on Remy for the third time that evening. "Go wash your hands and set de table."

Remy glared at his father from behind the book he was pretending to read and responded with an exaggerated sigh. He tossed his book aside and moved to obey Jean-Luc's commands. In the kitchen, Remy set the table with much clattering of plates. The utensils were dispensed in a pile at the table's center. Remy dragged his chair out from under the table and flopped himself into the seat. He had resolved to not speak to Jean-Luc ever again, and now only communicated with his father through a series of sighs, eye-rolls, and derisive snorts. Four days of this behavior had the desired result of making Jean-Luc extremely irritated. However, Remy's older brother Henri wryly observed that Remy's newfound muteness meant that they could now eat a family meal in peace. Remy paused in pushing his peas from one side of his plate to the other to glare at his older brother. Clearly, Henri was in collusion with the enemy when he should have been on Remy's side. Henri lifted his wine glass while regarding Remy with a smug smile, daring him to respond.

_I hate your stupid face_ , Remy thought at him.

Remy couldn't bring himself to be angry with Tante Mattie even though she was in cahoots with Jean-Luc as well. Mattie was quick with the rod, but at least her punishments were dealt out swiftly, unlike the elaborate and enduring torture of being grounded. She seemed apologetic when she arrived to retrieve Remy and take him to Charity Hospital every afternoon. She knew how much he hated going there. Remy would drag his feet and shuffle along beside her as they walked to the hospital. Occasionally, Mattie would reach out and hug him to her side or pat his back as the hospital loomed in the distance. The hospital building was the tallest around, one of the tallest buildings in New Orleans. Remy found it useful for orienting himself in the city, but the building was otherwise avoided.

Remy was vaguely suspicious of doctors, a mindset he'd acquired from Jean-Luc, who felt that the medical community was composed of charlatans and snake-oil salesmen. Tante Mattie might have thought likewise, but she could use her gift for healing in the socially-acceptable confines of Big Charity. She saw volunteerism as an opportunity to reach people who otherwise wouldn't seek out the talents of a witch woman. Tante Mattie usually kept to the pediatric ward, an area that Remy avoided in favor of duties where he could remain unseen, like filing paperwork. He didn't have a problem with the injured, sick, or infirm. What he dreaded most about going to the hospital was the chance that he would see someone he knew.

Big Charity was the place people went when there was nowhere else to go. Remy was afraid to see the victims of stabbings, gunshot wounds, of beatings, rape, or any of the other tragedies that could befall a person living on the streets. He feared being recognized by one of the kids he once ran with, of being seen as a deserter who left the streets relatively unscathed. They likely thought him weak, they might regard him with contemptuous envy or hatred. He felt terribly guilty for having left them behind, for having escaped to a life where he had food, clothing, and shelter. Remy avoided the parts of town where the other kids still picked pockets or panhandled. He wanted to stay away from Big Charity because eventually someone he knew would turn up there, hit by a fist, a car, or a bullet.

Remy was in the stacks, putting patient records back into their folders and shelving them when one of the receptionists called him to the desk.

"Go bring these to room 406," she told him and put a vase of flowers in his hands.

Remy wordlessly obeyed, hiding himself behind the spray of carnations and ferns. The card stuck inside the bouquet read: "It's a Boy – Congratulations!" Remy didn't know what he was going to hide behind once he deposited the bouquet in its recipient's room. He didn't have long to think on it when he was pulled aside and into an empty room by the hem of his oversized shirt.

"Hey," his future-self whispered.

"What are you doin' here?" Remy whispered back.

His future-self smirked. "Look what I got."

There was a brief crackle of resistance as his future-self placed a plastic card in Remy's hand. It bore the same photograph as the one on his hospital volunteer badge. Remy now had a fake motorized bike permit which put him at sixteen and not his actual fifteen. He'd also been given a new name. Remy held the card in both hands, watching the holographic patterns wink across its newly minted surface.

" _C'est parfait!_ " Remy whispered.

"Yeah," his future-self agreed. "And it'll go good wit' dis." His twin pulled out a folded newspaper from the waistband of his jeans. An ad in the classified section had been circled. The ad was for a Yamaha sport bike.

"Twenty-three hundred dollars," Remy said, looking over the description. "Where are we gonna get that kind of money?"

"We'll have to hit a better quality target," his future-self said.

Remy lowered the newspaper. "We'll never get enough cash picking pockets."

"We need jewelry," his future-self replied.

Remy shook his head. "Which means dealing wit' a fence. Which means taking a cut."

"We gotta stick wit' what we know."

Remy acquiesced. "And I.D. theft is apparently not my forte."

"We don't have much time," his future-self said. "That bike was sold b'fore I could come up wit' de money on my own. And getting de new I.D. took most of what we had saved."

"Could we just steal de bike?"

His future-self nodded thoughtfully. "It's in a storage unit off de highway. We'd have to work out a way to get out there."

Remy chewed his lip and re-read the ad. "I could maybe talk t'Temperence and get a ride from her brother."

Remy's twin grinned. "I'd like t'do more'n talk to her."

"You won't be de one talkin' to her, I will."

"Says you, estipid. You were too busy feelin' sorry for yourself to make a move when you had de chance!"

"She just got in a fight wit' her boyfriend," Remy snapped.

"That didn't stop her from puttin' her tongue down your throat!"

"I didn't want t'take advantage of her."

"God, you're such a pussy!"

"And you're an asshole!" Remy put his hands over his face and groaned. "Why am I fighting with myself?"

"I'm going to need so much therapy when I'm older," his future-self added.

~ oOo ~

Both Remy and his slightly-older but none-the-wiser counterpart spotted the mark at the same time. Though they were on opposite ends of the street, they were in perfect communion; noting the mark and making eye contact with one another. Then it was time to move. Remy paced himself to come up alongside the mark just as she was about to encounter a small crowd of out-of-towners on a walking tour. The woman was perhaps in her mid-forties, a statuesque figure with dark mahogany-colored hair cut in a severe bob. She was dressed simply and tastefully with little adornment save for her oversized sunglasses and the ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Remy imagined her a wealthy owner of one of the boutiques or antiques shops that lined either side of the street. She was carrying a canvas bag of produce in one arm, the other arm draped over her expensive purse.

The woman moved aside on the sidewalk to make way for the tourists just as Remy approached from behind. He jostled her purse from her shoulder as he passed, and his future-self attempted to squeeze in with the tourists, stepping directly into the woman's path. Her canvas bag was knocked askew and an orange tumbled from the sack. The woman clutched her produce to her chest and turned to look after the rude boy who had nearly knocked her groceries to the ground.

"Oops, sorry!" Remy's future-self called with a grin that said he wasn't sorry at all. He scooped up the orange and then trotted after the throng of tourists.

Remy caught the purse before it could hit the ground. The woman turned to Remy, a look of irritation on her face.

" _Pardonnez-moi_ ," Remy said, offering up her bag. "Stupid tourists. You nearly dropped this."

The woman's lips parted as she stared down at Remy for a few moments, apparently at a loss for words. He smiled shyly at her and righted the strap on her shoulder with one hand while taking her left hand in his opposite.

He nodded at her groceries. "D'you need any help, _madame_?"

"No, I –," she began with a little shake of her head. "I'm –."

" _Enh, bien, madame_ ," he said with a little bow as he released her hand. "Have a lovely day."

He turned before she could respond and he continued down the sidewalk. Remy felt a thrill of victory and suppressed the urgent need to run. He slipped the ring he'd just stolen onto his forefinger, the diamonds hidden against the flesh of his palm.

The woman called out to him: "Hey, wait –!"

For the briefest moment, Remy felt as if he'd been snagged by the back of his jacket. He stumbled slightly then caught himself and the unseen force released him. In the next instant, he was fleeing. He heard the woman call after him again. Remy turned the corner and ran down an alley, across damp backstreets past trashcans and dumpsters. He continued his ground-eating pace until he felt he had put enough distance between himself and the mark. Remy trotted to a halt, then reversed direction and angled himself back to Big Charity, where he would meet up with his double.

Once within sight of the hospital, he checked his pocket watch. He didn't have much time before Tante Mattie would take him back home. Remy's twin was nowhere to be seen. Remy leaned against the outside wall of the hospital, feeling the sun-warmed stone facade against his back. He studied the ring in the late day light, then placed the ring into his pocket. He cast one last glance around for his future-self. There were only a few minutes left. Remy looked through the side-entrance doors to see Tante Mattie talking with two staff members. She seemed to be deeply involved in a conversation.

When Remy turned away, he found himself face-to-face with his twin.

Remy jerked back and struck his head against the stone wall. "Dieu," he hissed and put a hand to the back of his head. "You idiot! You scared me."

His other-self gave a slow grin.

"I got de ring," he told his future-self. "We could easily buy de bike, even after de fence takes his cut."

"The bike..." his future-self repeated.

Remy hesitated. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"I was thinkin' –."

"Oh?"

"I was thinkin' we, I mean – I – could take Belle wit' me. And then maybe de bike isn't such a good idea if there's de two of us."

His future-self studied Remy thoughtfully.

Remy didn't want another argument with himself so he pressed on. "It's not like any of this is her fault. She doesn't want t'be part of Jean-Luc's pact any more than I do. We could go to New York together."

"No," his future-self said suddenly.

"No?" Remy asked. "But it's so much easier wit' de two of us! You and me...why not me and Belle? We could be a team."

"You don't need her," his future-self insisted.

"She'll want t'come when I tell her. We can go back to how we were before, before de stupid pact. We could be friends again. We could –."

"Do you think she cares about you?"

The question struck Remy dumb. "What–?"

"Do you think she loves you?" his twin probed further. "Would she have turned her back on you if that were true? How can you ever trust someone like that?"

Remy stared at his future-self. He felt a creeping anxiety and a sense of wrongness about the conversation. There was something strange about the way his future-self was looking at him. "None of them really care about you," his future-self continued. "They are just using you. For the pact. Why else would they have taken you in? Outsider. Freak."

Remy shrank back, hating to hear his darkest thoughts voiced aloud.

"You only have yourself," his future-self told him. "You are all alone."

"Shut up," Remy muttered. "Just – just stop."

"You can escape. All you need is one more push in the right direction."

Remy folded his arms across his chest and stared sullenly at his double, hating himself. "What are we going t'do?" he asked.

"What are you going to do?" his future-self asked and poked Remy in the chest with his forefinger. "Just prove it to yourself. You don't need them. You don't need anyone. Belle, Jean-Luc, or that woman –," here his twin nodded in Tante Mattie's direction. "Go now. Just walk away."

Remy shook his head. "No...we don't have de money. We don't have de bike..."

"You are delaying. You are too scared to go."

He bristled at this. "We have to have a plan." His future-self continued to pin Remy with his gaze. Remy didn't realize how unnerving his own eyes were until he was being scrutinized by them. No wonder people thought him the devil. "We need a bigger score," he told himself.

His twin smiled then. "We need a contract," he said.

"A contract?" Remy repeated and his heart began to pound as he thought.

"Steal a contract from Jean-Luc's office," his future-self said with smug authority. "Acquire a client, as a Guild thief should."

Remy felt a tremor of fear go through his body. Stealing from the Guild was unconscionable. It went against everything he'd ever been taught. "I – we can't betray our family," Remy said, his voice sounding small.

"Do you think they'd hesitate to betray you?" his future-self said. "They aren't your real family."

Remy raised a hand and rubbed his chest at the place over his speeding heart. He could not meet the piercing gaze of his own reflected image. Slowly, he nodded. "I'll get a contract," he said finally.

His twin smiled a tight-lipped smile. "Meet me tonight, here. After dark."

Remy glanced back through the glass double doors to see Tante Mattie approaching. "Mattie's coming. You need t'get out of here."

Remy realized he needn't have spoken. When he turned back, he found himself to be completely alone.

* * *

c'est parfait - it's perfect

Next time: Gambit gets a haircut and a real job. Okay...not really.


	12. Working Overtime

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Eleven Weeks Ago**

Remy felt inordinately pleased and excited, like a newly-graduated Guild thief with his first contract.

_You're acting like a belle who's just been invited to the ball,_ he chided himself. In an effort not to seem as eager as he felt, he spoke laconically to the Federal Agent.

"So what's in dis for me?" Remy asked Carl Denti, who was seated across from him in the booth at a New York deli. Remy picked up his Kosher pickle and bit into it with a crunch.

Denti had a face like granite that moved from one expression to the next at glacial speed. His eyebrows came together slowly, the corners of his mouth turned downward another fraction.

"I could offer you compensation for your services," he intoned. He had eaten his Reuben with single-minded determination, as if consuming it had been a mission.

Remy leaned back into the booth with a grin. He waved away Denti's offer dismissively. "I don't need money. I'll do it for free. In service to my Uncle Sam."

Denti shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. Clearly, Remy was draining the agent of what little patience he had. "Then what _do_ you want?"

Remy had to concentrate on keeping his feet on the ground to stop himself from dancing. In the weeks that would follow, he would find that giving Carl Denti a hard time was just one of the perks of the job. "I could use a favor," Remy replied. "There's dis one, eensy, tiny felony of mine..."

Denti tapped his finger on a manila folder he had set on the tabletop. "Could this eensy, tiny felony have anything to do with intent to commit mail fraud, identity theft, failure to appear before a judge, contempt of court–?" he began.

"Youthful indiscretion," Remy cut in, and his gaze narrowed a bit. "And I thought those records were sealed."

"When you turned eighteen," Denti affirmed. "But not in instances that include federal investigations."

"I don't really like when people go pokin' around in my history," Remy replied lightly, but there was a hard gleam in his eyes.

"Would you mind telling me why you stole a mail truck?" Denti asked and leaned forward, meeting the challenge of Remy's stare.

"De reasons escape my memory now, but I probably had some." Remy rolled his eyes skyward and smiled.

"I'm sure they were as equally logical and well-thought out as the decisions you make now," Denti said, shifting back into his seat once more. The moment of tension seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had appeared.

" _Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose_ ," Remy remarked congenially. "So, can you do it or not? Can you get it taken off my record?"

Denti considered him a moment. "I don't know. There will be paperwork to fill out, a formal request. You'll have to appear in the same court you were charged in," he said finally.

"Feh," Remy said and threw his arms along the booth's backrest. "That judge in N'Awlins has it out f'r me. Been suckin' at de Assassins' teat for 'bout forty years now."

Denti considered this. "I can have a talk with your state representative."

"Really?" Remy said, leaning forward again. "You'd do that for me?"

Denti looked incredibly put-upon. "If you are willing and able to do the job."

"Am I being headhunted?" Remy asked.

Now Agent Denti looked uncomfortable. "N-no," he said. "What I mean is – I thought of you when the case came up."

"Don't make me blush."

"Look, Gambit," Denti held his hand palm up, as if begging for Remy to not make him regret his decision. "This is a matter of national security. Please take it seriously."

"Okay, okay," Remy said, sitting up in the booth and squaring his shoulders. "I'm being serious now."

"Then take that smirk off your face," Denti ordered.

"I can't. It's stuck like that."

Denti put his head in his hand and sighed. _Really,_ Remy thought, _he shouldn't make himself such an easy target._ It was probably the fact that the agent was a cop to Remy's robber that made it so delightful to antagonize the older man.

"I'm trusting you to be discrete," Denti said at last.

"I never kiss and tell. So what's dis job?"

Denti cast a glance around the deli briefly before turning the manila folder around and pushing it across the table towards Remy. "NABC is an international bank headquartered here in New York. They have numerous offshore firms, shell companies, that they are using to conceal certain accounts."

Remy flicked open the folder to reveal an internal memo from NABC. The paper had been folded several times at one point but had been flattened and put into the file. "Money laundering?" Remy asked, glancing over the memo.

Denti nodded. "For several terrorist organizations. This memo was an alert to various violations of AML – anti-money laundering controls, meant for executive eyes only."

Remy sat up and regarded Denti. "Terrorists... What're we talkin' here? HYDRA? A.I.M.?"

Denti gave a slow shake of his head. "No. We're looking at several drug rings, specifically in Mexico City...and there are other accounts. In Turkey. Iran and Iraq."

Remy blinked. "Al-Qaeda?"

Denti nodded. "You don't need high-tech gadgets or mystical weaponry to terrorize a city, a country. Just a few zealots with box-cutters and the funding to get them on board a commercial airliner."

Remy's attention turned back to the memo. "So where'd this come from?"

"This memo was leaked from someone on the inside. I think one of the higher ups, given the sensitivity of the document," Denti said. "A whistleblower."

"You don't know who?"

"No. Likely he or she fears reprisal for coming forward. It would be a career-ending move. It's enough evidence to start an investigation, but I haven't yet."

"What are you waitin' for?"

Denti folded his hands on the tabletop. "I'm no longer a Federal Agent," he told Remy.

Remy cocked his head, confused at the abrupt change in conversation. "Retirement?"

"I was offered a new position. Chief Investigator on the Senate's Permanent Subcommittee. Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs."

"That sounds really impressive," Remy said.

"It's a desk job. It's going to kill me," Denti said with all seriousness.

Remy smiled. "Probably beats grading term papers."

"You: a school teacher. Shaping the minds of the future generation. Scary."

"Don't worry. My co-workers keep my duties to a minimum to see that I do the least amount of damage possible," Remy said, his voice light. "Something about your tone tells me I shouldn't congratulate you on your promotion."

Denti frowned again. "There was a big show about cleaning house in Washington after the financial crisis. Really it was just a reshuffling. Same asses sitting in different chairs. Cronies, Wall Street connections, Congress in the banks' pockets. I saw thirty investigations go up in smoke, thousands of evidential documents destroyed while Congress carefully looked the other way. There's no accountability."

"I'm glad I keep my money hidden in my mattress," Remy said. Denti regarded him stoically. "That was a joke," Remy clarified. "I won't pretend I know anything about Wall Street, politics, subcommittee whatsis. Don't need to explain it t'me. Just tell me what it is you want me to steal."

"I don't want you to steal anything," Denti said. "What I want is for you to stop the information from getting destroyed, lost, or otherwise stolen."

"Ah, it's an ironic twist!" Remy said. "Send de thief t'guard against thieves. I like it."

"I want someone on the inside. I don't want a memo, e-mail, byte of data...not a single doodle on a scratch pad, to leave that bank. So when the Feds go in, we catch them with their pants down around their ankles."

"Yeah," Remy said. "Stick it t'de man."

Denti paused. "LeBeau, you realize I _am_ The Man, right?"

"Way t'take de system down from de inside," Remy said, raising his fist in a show of solidarity. "All power to de people."

Denti's shoulders drooped and he sighed.

Remy continued: "I got t'say, it's not my usual kinda job. But it seems like a good way t'build my résumé."

"Do you think you can do it?" Denti's tone betrayed his doubts.

"I'm a quick study," Remy said.

Denti gave a final, slow nod. He reached out and turned the memo over, revealing a second piece of paper and a photocopied photograph. "This is the man you're going to replace. Wellesley Baun, IRS Auditor. Les has been accepting forgeries and falsified reports from NABC for nearly a decade. He's going to be pursuing other opportunities."

"What's that mean?"

"I'm going to encourage him to look elsewhere for employment."

"I had no idea you could play de heavy," Remy said. "I thought you were de good cop."

"If I were a good cop, would I be consulting with a thief and vigilante?"

Remy held out his hands helplessly. "Seems clear t'me you have nothin' but de best intentions."

"As much as I would like to see the people responsible for making these decisions," he pointed to the memo, "be brought to justice, the reality is none of them will ever see the inside of a jail cell. This is about cutting off funds to terrorists."

"No short order," Remy said. "I'm happy t'help. But IRS auditor? I don't even know what an auditor does."

"Don't worry about that. I can take care of the reports. The auditor is inside the company, but not a part of the company. Usually relegated, dismissed, and out of sight."

"I think I missed my true calling," Remy said drolly.

"It'll get you in the doors."

"Then what?"

"I'm leaving that up to you. I won't ask any questions."

"I think this is de start of a beautiful friendship."

"You'll have three weeks," Denti said and held up the last three fingers of his right hand. "Secure the data. Get the names and places on those accounts. And if possible, find the whistleblower. See if you can't convince him to come forward. I could use his testimony."

Remy nodded and looked at the auditor's photograph. "I suppose I'm gonna have t'look de part."

"Maybe you should consider a haircut."

"You're quite de cut-up, Carl."

~ oOo ~

Information was not necessarily Remy's area of expertise. He preferred the things he could hold in his hand: jewels, art, money, tangible objects he could see and feel. He liked the weight of stolen goods, the sensation of possession. It felt like success. Remy wasn't sure if this job would give him the same sort of thrill, but he enjoyed the idea of being challenged. He also enjoyed having Denti's trust, and that the man had come to him for help. There had been very few times the X-Men had ever requested Gambit's services when it came to theft. Often they turned to Storm for those kinds of things. Remy didn't blame them; Storm was a trusted and long-standing member of the team. Naturally, the X-Men would turn to her...even if she was a just a _pickpocket_. Remy did think the X-Men might avoid a lot of sanctimony and high-horsiness if they would just go to the formally trained Guild thief and not the weather goddess turned Wakandian queen.

Remy knew he would need a few things for this job. Some kind of mass storage device, should he need to back up data, but nothing so big as to be conspicuous. He would also need decryption software, something more sophisticated than what he had access to. It just so happened that he would be given an opportunity to procure both.

"I think dis is an invasion of privacy," Gambit informed Iron Man as he placed his hand upon a handheld crystalline device to have his fingerprints scanned.

"You're not getting into Stark Tower without having the proper security clearances," Iron Man said, turning the device around and holding it before Gambit's face. "Look into this."

"Wha – OW!" Gambit blinked as stars danced before his eyes. "What de hell was that for?"

"Retinal scan," Iron Man said and studied the handheld device to verify the scan had been successful.

"This is some kind of discrimination," Gambit complained.

"Here," Iron Man said and handed him a swab on a long stick.

Gambit reluctantly took it. "You want me t'clean out my ears?"

"Cheek swab. I need your DNA."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. You gonna have me piss in a cup next?"

"Bathroom's over there."

Gambit stared at Iron Man for a moment.

"That last part was a joke," Iron Man amended.

Gambit was informed that he was given Level Eight clearance, which got him into some, but not all areas in Stark Tower. But he wasn't going to let a little thing like high-level security restrictions stop him from exploring the entire facility from the ground up. After leaving the War Room standoff between his teammates the X-Men and the High and Mighty Avengers, he ventured into the private quarters and kitchen area. Gambit explored the pantry and uncovered a bag of Goldfish crackers. He prepared a sandwich, traveled to the lowest level of Stark Tower and had a brief and disappointing discussion with his former leader, Cyclops.

After realizing his folly, Gambit returned to his exploration of Stark Tower still clutching the bag of crackers. In a sort of technological atrium, he found a laptop sitting on a large steel work table. With his hand buried to the wrist in the cracker bag, he sat himself before the computer. Gambit lifted the lid. It was a very nice laptop in Gambit's estimation, with a beautiful retina display. However, the laptop lacked username and password protection, a fact which Gambit found incredibly amusing considering the security rigmarole he'd been subjected to. Sometimes the most obvious things went overlooked.

Gambit brushed crumbs from the front of his uniform, and then set to work reconfiguring his security clearances to match that of Tony Stark's. He took some time to explore some of Stark's personal files. He found the stash of pornography, hidden in a folder labeled "tax returns," to be surprisingly mundane. Gambit downloaded some suggested viewing material to the folder, changed Stark's desktop background to a picture of a cat wearing a lime as a hat, and set up a proper username and password, then locked the computer. He was just closing the laptop when he heard the sound of a man clearing his throat.

Gambit turned to see a man standing at the entry to the atrium. "Should you be in here, sir?" the man asked politely but pointedly.

"I got a little peckish," Gambit said and showed the man the bag of crackers.

"I expect the bag's owner will be disappointed to find his crackers missing," the man said.

Gambit regarded the bag and stuffed a few Goldfish into his mouth. The exterior of the bag had the name 'THOR' written in black marker on it. "Hm...," Gambit said. "Sorry 'bout that. Where we live, it's kinda a free-for-all situation. I'm Remy, by de way."

For a moment, Gambit thought the man wouldn't respond. Finally, the man said: "Jarvis, sir. Can I _help_ you with something?"

Stark's collection of personal photographs had given Gambit an idea. "Ah, weh, _monsieur_. Can you tell me, is _Mademoiselle Virginie_ around?"

The man's brows furrowed. "Do you mean Ms. Potts, sir?"

Remy nodded and stood, crumpling the empty bag of crackers. "That would be her."

"Is Ms. Potts expecting you?"

"Nobody expects much from me," Gambit told him. "It's been awhile since I seen her last. Let's surprise her, shall we?"

Jarvis looked at Gambit doubtfully. "You know Ms. Potts."

"Oh sure. She and her sorority sisters made dis out-of-towner feel mighty welcome in de Big Apple," Gambit grinned at the older gentleman and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Jarvis seemed momentarily nonplussed, but recovered his professional demeanor quickly. "Right this way, sir."

Mr. Jarvis led Gambit down the hall to an elevator. They traveled up several floors to a penthouse suite. The elevator chimed their arrival and Jarvis guided Gambit into a modern living room. The furnishings had industrial fixtures and motifs of chrome and exposed rivets and bolts juxtaposed with rich and comfortable-looking upholstery. Gambit's eyes scanned the walls and appraised the art hung there, figures tallying up in his mind. He quickly came to a rather large sum and carefully placed his hands in the pockets of his coat in order to resist any impulsive thieving urges.

There was a figure seated on the couch facing the large window overlooking the panoramic vista of the New York skyline. The woman looked up from the device she held in her hands, a smaller version of the scanning device Iron Man had used before. She had been poking at the surface of the clear glass screen, moving figures around with a touch.

"You get Angry Birds on dat thing?" Remy asked Pepper Potts.

Her face was momentarily confused, her mind delayed in processing the inexplicable sight of seeing Remy LeBeau standing in her living room. Then her expression cleared and she smiled.

"As I live and breathe," Pepper said, assuming a faux-Southern Georgia accent. "If it isn't the esteemed Remy LeBeau."

Remy gave her a short bow from the waist. "And the lovely Miss Potts."

Pepper pushed back the fur throw she had covering her legs and stood as Remy approached. When he stood before her she kissed the air beside his right cheek. Remy leaned back and took in her appearance. "You look beautiful, as ever," he told her, which was true though she was only wearing a plain v-neck tee and jeans. Her complexion was paler than normal under its smattering of freckles.

"Please," she said flatly and turned her head slightly to look past him and to the window. "I look tired and sick."

Remy rested his hands on her shoulders. "You feelin' okay, _chère_?" he asked.

Pepper turned back to him and looked up into his eyes. She smiled slightly. "A little under the weather, is all."

"Ms. Potts?" Jarvis prompted from the door.

She turned to him slightly. "Thanks Jarvis," she said. "I'm glad you managed to snag this one before he could get himself into too much trouble."

Jarvis nodded at her. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked, still warily eyeing the thief.

"No, thank you. We'll be fine."

When Jarvis departed Pepper looked back to Remy. "What on earth are you doing – ah, wait. I'd forgotten you run with the X-Club now."

Remy offered her a smile. "Most of de time I think I should be runnin' from them," he told her. They were still standing in fairly close proximity, not that Remy minded at all. He studied the freckles across her cheeks and recalled the time he'd promised to kiss every freckle that appeared on her body. But that had been some time ago, back when he still skirted the periphery of the real world and the normal people who lived in it. He casually stepped back from her and let his hand trail down her arm to her hand, which he brought up to his lips. "But in this instance, my allegiances t'de costumed set grants me good fortune. As it puts me in de company of _les plus jolies filles_ like yourself."

Pepper's smile faded and she said: "I was so sorry to hear about Professor Xavier."

Remy found himself turning away to look at the window. Beyond the glass he could still see portions of the city smoldering; smoke smearing the otherwise blue sky. He saw his own reflection in the glass and was somewhat disturbed to see how little his expression matched what he was feeling inside. He'd trained his face so long into its expression of bemused arrogance; it was assumed he cared very little at all. Remy preferred it that way. When disappointment and failure came, as it inevitably did, it was easier to hide behind the veneer of nonchalance. There was a ringing in his left ear and he lifted a hand as if to block out the sound.

"Remy...?" Pepper said, her voice concerned.

Apparently, he had been silent a moment too long. "Sorry," he said. "Tinnitus. What did you say?"

Her expression was sympathetic. "How about a drink?" she asked.

"That's de first intelligent thing I've heard anyone say all day," he told her and softened his expression.

Pepper walked past him and towards a mirror-backed wall. There was a minibar with various bottles set upon the dark wood shelves. She looked at Remy's reflection as she took down a highball glass. "You're going to have to drink from a glass," she said. "I'm afraid we don't have any plastic funnels or tubes."

"I've found my tastes have changed since we hung out last...at least when it comes t'alcohol," he said and made a point to regard her figure thoughtfully. "Women on de other hand..."

Pepper shook her head with feigned impatience. "Bourbon? Scotch?"

"Bourbon, _s'il vous plaît_. Neat," he said and wandered closer to the window. Pepper joined him and handed him the glass with a measure of amber-colored liquid inside. She gazed out the window as well.

"So what comes next?" she asked, looking out at the city. Far below, rescue workers were putting out flames, construction vehicles moved piles of debris, and police directed the flow of traffic.

"I try not t'think too far ahead," Remy told her. "De future is beyond my control."

"Where are the other X-Men?" she asked him and glanced back towards the elevator as if they might manifest there.

"Havin' a pissing contest wit' de Avengers," Remy responded and watched her raise her glass of ginger ale to her lips. "Had my fill of fighting."

She reached up and touched the bruise that darkened his jaw. "What's this from?"

"Fell face-first into Cap'n America's shield," Remy told her and took a sip from his glass.

"Well, I'm glad you're here, anyhow. It's good to see you again. I wish the circumstances were different."

Remy brightened. "How 'bout you and me take our leave and have ourselves a night out on de town?" he suggested. "That is, if we can find anyplace open that isn't a smoking ruin. Will you allow me t'enjoy de pleasure of your company?"

She shook her head at him and smiled mischievously. "I'm going to have to respectfully and reluctantly decline your offer, Monsieur," she said and waggled her finger under his nose. "I don't think my heart can bear the excitement."

Remy felt himself relaxing incrementally. The bourbon helped, but the sight of a pretty woman, one who looked at him with fondness, improved his mood immeasurably. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had the opportunity to casually flirt with a woman; to lavish attention on a girl and make her feel special.

"I see how it is," Remy told her over the rim of his glass. "You gone and got yourself a high-class lifestyle now. Won't give this poor Cajun de time of day."

"Really Remy? Your usual charm doesn't work so you try to play the pity card? That's so beneath you," Pepper said.

"Nothin's beneath me," Remy said. "When I'm wit' you I'm walkin' on air."

"Awful!"

"I can beg and grovel too," he added.

"I wouldn't mind seeing that," Pepper said, and looked down her nose at him haughtily, her glass held aloft in her hand.

"May I beg you t'have mercy on me and grant dis boy a favor?" he asked smoothly.

"Oh, here comes," Pepper said dryly. "The _real_ reason you came to see me."

Gambit grinned wolfishly. "Well, I thought I might just go ahead and avail myself to de many mysterious wonders of Stark Tower, but then I thought...it'd be much more fun t'charm what I need from de hands of a beautiful woman rather than just steal it outright."

"And what is it you hope to acquire?" Pepper asked and shifted her weight to her right leg, hand on her hip. Her expression was still playful and she looked less tired than she had when Gambit had first seen her.

"I wondered if you might have some kinda electronic storage doo-hickey," he told her. "That I could store some intel on."

Pepper's eyes narrowed a fraction. "What _kind_ of intel?" she asked.

"Leads and accounts to various international terrorists and crime syndicates," he said with a blasé tone and swirled the bourbon around in the glass.

Pepper let out a puff of air which set her bangs fluttering. "I'm sorry I asked," she said, her disbelief apparent. "But I might have something you could use." She set her empty glass down onto the windowsill and walked to the opposite side of the room. There was what appeared to be a rather large steamer trunk set on its end which she pulled open to reveal a small home office hidden within. She pulled open a drawer and retrieved something from inside. When she returned to Gambit's side, she was holding a small, black square device in her hand, no bigger than a pack of playing cards. Gambit's grin grew wider.

"What's dis?" he asked as he took it from her hands. The object was smooth and jet black, seamless and as stylish as anything Apple had ever produced.

"It's a prototype of something Tony developed based on a data drive Daredevil got ahold of. The Omega Drive,* he called it. It's made up of unstable molecules and can't be destroyed, technology developed by Mr. Fantastic. Able to store large amounts of electronic data, and impossible to decrypt without the right security...and programs. Programs that Tony designed as well."

"Seems like everyone's got a finger in dis pie," Gambit remarked and turned the small drive over in his hands.

Pepper raised her light-colored brows at him. "I'm trusting you're going to use it for good and not for evil?" she prompted.

Gambit nodded and palmed the drive. "And what reason will you give for lendin' me dis thing?"

Pepper shrugged a shoulder. "It could stand some real-world user testing. Quality assurance."

"And what if I told you I might need software to un-jumble some encrypted data bein' transferred over a network?"

"I'd tell you I could load something I have onto that drive," she said slowly. "Something that would take ten minutes what thousands servers couldn't process in over a thousand years. As long as your intentions were pure."

"My intentions, _certainement_ ...but I can't say de same for my thoughts," Gambit told her, his voice growing low and dark. "At least not wit' you standin' so close t'me."

"Worse and worse." Pepper turned and gave him a wry grin over her shoulder.

"You used t'fall for my lines," Gambit said and followed her to the couch.

Pepper picked up the glass device she had been toying with when Gambit first arrived. "I used to throw ping-pong balls into Solo cups of cheap beer too."

Gambit sighed with forlorn longing as he sat beside her on the couch. "I miss those days. And de little tight sweater you wore. De one with de Greek letters stitched on."

Pepper smiled and looked into the device, tucking her bare feet back under the throw. "I still have that sweater," she remarked.

Gambit sighed again, long and loudly. She took the drive from his hand and tapped it to the surface of her handheld. There was a small beep and she handed the drive back to Gambit. "Transferred," she said simply.

"In addition to being breathtakingly gorgeous, have I also mentioned how intelligent and compassionate you are?" Gambit asked her convivially.

"You forgot generous and _trusting_ , Remy," she said pointedly as Gambit slipped the drive into his coat pocket.

Gambit took her hand once more and pressed his lips to it. "I am forever in your debt, _ma chèrie_."

"What. Are you doing. In here?" asked a voice from the hall.

The pair seated on the couch turned to see Tony Stark standing in the doorway, his hands folded across his chest and an irritated expression on his face.

"Just catchin' up wit' an old friend," Gambit said coolly.

Pepper extricated her hand from Gambit's and looked at Tony with a nearly sheepish expression. "I didn't hear you come in," she said lightly. "You know Remy, right?"

"I had the pleasure of shooting at him not too long ago," Tony responded, then pointed at Gambit. "You. Off my couch."

Gambit turned to Pepper and said: "I'm so sad our time together has been cut short. Perhaps we could talk again soon...someplace more private. My apartment, perhaps?"

"No," Tony interjected.

"I could maybe make us something to eat," Pepper suggested. "What are you feelings about tapas?"

"Remove yourself," Tony insisted as Gambit slowly stood.

"You have my number," Gambit said to Pepper.

"She does?" Tony asked, flummoxed.

" _Au revoir, ma chèrie_ ," Gambit said to Pepper with one last bow. He turned and walked past Tony towards the elevator. "Nice place y'got here," Gambit commented.

"It was," Tony groused. "Until you showed up."

Before the elevator doors slid shut, Gambit heard Tony say to Pepper: "Call my decorator and tell her to have this couch reupholstered."

"Call her yourself," Pepper said flippantly and returned her attention to the handheld.

"On second thought, have the couch burned," Tony continued. "And wash that hand. You don't know where he's been. What's this? Why are there are two glasses? You didn't serve him a drink, did you? Pepper. Pepper? Are you listening? Okay, just sit there and ignore me. If you'll excuse me, I have to go count the silverware."

~oOo~

New York City, New York

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago

It was Robert Lord's second week on the job. He had come to the conclusion that auditing was not a career he was particularly suited to. Nor was working in an office. Denti had been right, being the auditor meant you were placed among the lowest echelons of the company, where you could potentially wreak the least amount of havoc. In spite of all these factors, he found that he was happier and more comfortable in his own skin than he had been in recent memory.

Robert, also known to his friends as Remy and to the rest of the world as Gambit, was very good at his job, thanks to the behind-the-scenes tinkering of his co-conspirator Carl Denti. While reports were completed by someone else, Robert spent most of his day sitting idly in his cubicle on the lowest floor of NABC. The basement, sardonically dubbed the "Garden Level" by his office co-workers, was filled with the monotonous mechanical drone from the nearby server room. The floor was at times uncomfortably warm, at its worst, blazing hot. The Garden Level was shared by his fellow auditors, the few AML staff remaining to the company, members of the lazy and inept IT department, and after five-thirty p.m., the janitorial staff.

When Gambit wasn't in his cubicle, he was milling about with his co-workers, listening to them complain about the terrible office coffee baking away in the communal carafe, the unpredictable heating and cooling system, the annoying hum from the servers, and the incompetence of upper-management.

"The backlog is ridiculous," AML staffer Deborah complained while retrieving a drink from the water cooler. "And we're understaffed. Most days I just throw my hands up in surrender."

"Can you ask for more people?" Robert asked.

Deborah made a derisive sound. "Staffing freeze," she said grimly. "Conveniently occurring _after_ my boss got fired for complaining to the Board about the number of red-flagged accounts we've got in our backlog."

Gambit wondered if he might have some luck tracking down the whistleblower after all. "You haven't said anything to anyone, have you?" he asked in an undertone, raising his paper cup of water to his lips. "About those red-flags?"

"Of course not!" Deborah scoffed. "I've got two kids in college and an unemployed ex-husband! I _need_ this job."

Gambit sometimes found himself cordoned off in his cubicle by his fellow auditor, Rosalie. She used her girth to block off his means of escape. Though "Robert" dressed in ill-fitting and unfashionable clothing (supplied by another Robert, surname: Drake), wore tinted yellow-framed lenses, and had his longish hair slicked back from his forehead, Rosalie must have seen the diamond in the rough. Either that or she was getting really desperate. She managed to turn up in Gambit's path no matter where he went with the intent of procuring herself a boyfriend. Gambit regretted he hadn't invented a Mrs. Lord and several little Lords along with his alias, although Rosalie likely wouldn't have let that deter her.

"I don't know how you're able to get through all these reports so quickly," Rosalie tittered. "You must be some kind of auditing genius!"

_Maybe I could have Robert Lord come out of the closet,_ Gambit thought while smiling wanly at Rosalie. Any other time, he would be happy to charm the shape-wear right off Rosalie. But that would result in her continuing to dog his heels; not something conducive to espionage.

"Some of us are going out for drinks after work," she continued. "If you'd like to join us."

"I don't drink," Robert told her firmly, with a note of disdain in his voice.

Rosalie blinked at him. "Oh...I'm. Sorry?" she began uncomfortably. "Are you–? I mean... Uhm."

"Consuming intoxicants is against my religion," he informed her. "My body is a temple. By the way, have you heard the Good News about our Lord Savior, Jesus Christ?"

"I – think I hear my phone ringing. I have to go. Bye." Rosalie hurried off.

"Thank you, _Jesus_ ," Gambit muttered and turned back to his computer.

" _Que_?" asked the janitor, peering over the top of Robert's cubicle.

" _Nada, Jesus. Perdon por molestarte_ ," Gambit said.

There was one other employee Gambit had to tread carefully around. The security guard, Solomon, was not the rent-a-cop he'd expected but an observant and competent ex-military officer. He manned the security office in the late hours Robert typically worked, as well as weekends. The man was always impeccably groomed and smartly dressed in his uniform. He was stationed at the glass-enclosed security desk inside the front lobby, encircled by video monitors that relayed footage from the security cameras. Sol's stern demeanor put Gambit in mind of his former comrade-at-arms, Bishop. The security guard had issued Robert Lord his badge, taking what had to be the worst photograph Gambit had ever seen of himself. That badge was usually stuffed into the bag Robert carried in and out of the office.

Every day, Robert would wander into the lobby, riffle in his bag for several moments, dig into his pockets, and make a show of searching for his missing badge. Solomon sat there staring at Robert with growing impatience.

"Hey, New Guy," Sol said. "Haven't you learned the ropes yet?"

"Uhm," Robert said, flustered. He searched the interior pocket of his sport coat, then patted the front pockets of his slacks. "Oh, here!" He finally uncovered his badge then flashed it in front of the card reader. The reader emitted a double-beep and flashed red.

"Uh, oh," Robert said glumly as he was denied admittance.

Sol sighed. "Give me that," he commanded and Robert turned over his badge. Solomon studied the card's front and back. "It was working fine yesterday. What did you do to it?"

"Could be my ability to manipulate the energy of subatomic particles is interfering with the mechanics of the security system," Robert responded.

Solomon stared at him, his mouth a flat line under his pencil-thin mustache.

Robert added: "Or I put my badge through the wash on accident."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, New Guy," said Sol, who didn't sound amused in the least. The security guard wheeled his chair away from the desk for a moment to verify that the badge was still functioning. While Sol was running the security badge under the handheld scanner, Gambit casually leaned over the security desk and took a photo of the visitors' log with his cell phone. The schedule had the dates, times, and names of every visitor slated to arrive within the week. Solomon turned back to Robert and handed him the badge through the open slot in the glass panels protecting the security desk.

"It seems to be working now," Sol told him. "Try again."

Robert waved his badge in front of the reader and was buzzed through the front door. "Have a nice day, Sol!" he said and waved.

Later, Gambit put a phone call in to Denti. Gambit was standing just outside the exit to the Garden Level, at a steel door that was often propped open with a cinderblock by the cigarette smokers. He had to take several steps up the concrete staircase towards the ground level before he could get a signal.

"Does de name Iron Mountain mean anything to you?" Gambit asked Denti.

Denti paused a moment. "Yes. Sure, it's an information management company."

"Info management? How anticlimactic," Gambit told him. "Here I thought the name was all mysterious and ominous sounding."

"They manage corporate and governmental records," Denti told him. "Offsite storage, large-scale shredding."

"Please don't bore me wit' any more details. They're on de schedule for this upcoming Saturday," Gambit informed Denti.

"So I guess that means you'll be working this weekend," Denti responded. "Nothing is to leave those offices."

"Slave driver," Gambit complained. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"What's that?"

"What happens to all these folks when it gets found out their bosses are crooks?"

"That's not certain. Likely NABC will face some fines and possible sanctions. If we get someone to come forward, we could have the FBI involved and press criminal charges. Any luck on that front?"

"The whistleblower? Not yet. So will they lose their jobs?"

"The bosses?"

"No, I don't care about them. I meant de other employees. On account of the sanctions or whatnot."

"It's possible. Washington's latest ideology is that banks are too big of a business to fail. It's unlikely NABC will go under."

"One of de employees said her boss got fired for complaining about flagged accounts," Gambit told him.

"Do you think you could get ahold of the names on those accounts and who approved them?"

"Sure. Thinkin' this weekend I'll put on my work clothes and take a quick look-see upstairs. Should be quiet. There's some server downtime scheduled for Saturday. Updates to security or somethin'. De IS code-monkeys are bouncin' off de walls down here. Snagged some data transfers from off de network that I'll send your way once I've got them decrypted," Gambit paused for a moment, then asked: "Can I get another favor?"

"What now?" Denti asked warily.

"It's not for me, it's for Jesus."

"Hey-who?"

"De night janitor. Man doesn't speak a lick of English. Lucky for me, I can chat him up _en espagnol_. He lives clear out in some outer-borough ghetto with about five other guys. I don't think he's here legally."

"Is that so?" Denti asked. "Hiring illegals. We can add that to NABC's list of violations."

"No, don't do that. I was hopin' you could pull some strings and get it so he can work here, in de U.S., legal-like."

"Why in the world would I do that, Gambit?"

"I was just askin' for you to do me a solid. He's a nice guy. I don't want you t'get de man deported. He sends all his funds back home to his family. It's not his fault he had de bad fortune to be born on de wrong side of de border."

"I should have known you for a bleeding-heart liberal."

"A what?" Gambit asked, confused.

"This is the last favor, Gambit," Denti told him finally.

"Do you think you could get his wife and kids up here too?"

"Of course. Why not? Any aunts, uncles, cousins you want to add to the list? A grandmother, perhaps?"

Gambit paused. "Well, I dunno. I suppose I could ask him."

"That was sarcasm, Gambit," Denti deadpanned.

Gambit switched the phone to his opposite ear. "Sorry, sometimes I don't hear so good out of that ear. How you comin' along wit' that other thing? My eensy, tiny felony?"

"I have a meeting scheduled with the senator later today," Denti replied. "But I don't know that you're going to get much leniency from that man."

"Why's dat?"

"He's not exactly a proponent of mutant rights. He's proposed an amendment to DOMA to deny mutants' marriage recognition under federal law."

"Doe-muh?"

"DOMA: the Defense of Marriage Act," said Denti with forced patience. "Don't you pay attention to the news?"

"I sometimes read USA Today. I like de colors."

"This affects you directly. You should take an active interest."

"I'm not married. I tried it and it didn't stick," Gambit said.

"Maybe you should take the future into consideration. They want to take away your civil liberties and treat you as a second-class citizen. Scalia compared human-mutant marriage to bestiality," Denti stated, his tone issuing a challenge.

"Who's this now and why should I care what kinky stuff he's into?"

"He's a Supreme Court Justice! For God's sake, Gambit!"

Gambit switched his phone back to his bad ear. "Okay, okay. Look, Carl, I got t'go back to work. I'll keep you posted on this Iron Mountain thing."

Gambit found it an effort to care about mutant affairs. These things were best left to the individuals who had a better understanding of politics. Although he fought alongside the X-Men in the name of Xavier's dream of peaceful co-existence, Gambit's experience was that the mutants themselves spent more time fighting one another than with humans. Denti was wrong; these kinds of things didn't affect Gambit at all. And even if DOMA or SOMA or what-have-you came to pass, laws were meant to be broken. Gambit got along fine with most humans. Carl Denti was a good example of that.**

On Saturday afternoon, Robert found himself once again at the security office. This time he was standing before the glass door, the words SECURITY etched in the glass at eye-level. Solomon was sitting in his rolling office chair, leaning back in his seat and regarding Robert with his brow furrowed.

"What is it this time?" Sol demanded, his voice muffled from inside the booth.

Robert mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?" Sol asked and wheeled forward to open the glass door. "Speak up, man. What are you doing here on a Saturday? Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

"Not really," Robert responded.

"You got no family? Wife?" Sol demanded, his arms folded across his chest as he looked up at Robert grimly.

"No. Do you?" Robert asked.

Sol looked momentarily startled to have been asked a question. "No...well, I did. Until she left me for my best friend. While I was in Iraq. Why am I telling you this?"

"Everyone's got a story," Robert said. "I'm sorry about your wife."

Sol rubbed his hand over his shaven head. "Yeah...," he said absently. "So what's your story, New Guy?"

"It's mercifully uninteresting," Robert informed him. "I wouldn't want to bore you."

Sol's face reverted back to his usual disgruntled expression. "What is it you want?" he asked. "Did you flush your badge down the toilet again?"

Robert had his arms crossed defensively, his hands under his armpits. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. It's just that...I think they must've turned off the heat downstairs. It's cold."

Sol glanced over at the security feed monitoring the Garden Level. "It's usually hot as hell down there with those servers," Sol said, mostly to himself. "Shouldn't be – shit. Those dumb asses." Sol leaned forward to peer closely at the monitor. "I told those nicotine-fiends to keep that damn door closed. Side door's been standing open for who knows how long."

"I could go close it," Robert offered.

Sol raised his hand dismissively. "We follow protocol. Got to check out every violation," Sol said and put his hand to the radio on his chest. "Jim, do you copy? Hey. We've got a 10-34 on the lower level. Jim...Where is that guy?"

"I think I saw him in janitorial," Robert said.

"Probably taking a nap," Sol griped and climbed out of his chair. "Stay out of trouble, New Guy."

"I was just going out for something hot t'drink. I'm freezing," Robert said and put his hand to the doorjamb. "You want anything?"

"No...thanks. And don't forget your damn badge," Sol said as he passed Robert on the way out of the security office. The door swung shut behind him.

"I got it," Robert said, pulling his badge from his pocket. The badge dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Sol shook his head as he proceeded to the elevator. Gambit watched him disappear behind the sliding metal doors. Once Sol was out of sight, Gambit left through the lobby doors to stand out on the sidewalk. Outside the building was a large container for hauling away debris. There was a backhoe poised by the curb, waiting for Monday morning to resume its work. A pair of orange and white barricades flanked the backhoe, alerting motorists to the construction site.

Gambit removed his sport coat, revealing a fluorescent-colored vest he'd taken from the facility manager, Jim's, office. Gambit picked up one end of the barricade and dragged it over to block the side-street that gave access to the bank's loading dock. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number while returning to the bank lobby.

"Iron Mountain, this is Melissa. How can I help you?" asked a pleasant sounding voice.

"Yes, hello. This is Solomon Jones at NABC. We have a pickup scheduled for this evening," Gambit said as he slipped out of the yellow vest and re-entered the bank.

"Yes, sir. The truck is currently en route."

"I'm afraid we've got some construction outside our building...they're still clearing debris from the mutant attack," Gambit continued. "Our side-street's completely blocked."

"Thanks for letting us know. I'll radio in to our drivers. Would you like to reschedule?"

"Not right now," Gambit told her and reached for the security office door.

Gambit pulled the security office door back open and peeled the piece of masking tape he'd stuck on the lock to keep the latch from engaging. He scanned Robert's badge in the portable reader and his profile appeared on the computer screen. Gambit quickly changed Robert's profile and gave him access to all parts of the building. He then scheduled Sol's computer to perform several mandatory security updates in the next half-hour, effectively making it unusable while the programs installed. Gambit adjusted the angle of several security cameras, then cut the feed to two others on the rear side of the building.

That'll give Sol a few more security violations to check out, Gambit thought.

After leaving the office, he stopped by the potted plant and picked up two take-out cups of coffee he'd left there earlier. He waited and watched as the numbers above the elevator changed from Lower Level to One and then to Ground Floor. The doors opened to reveal Solomon, looking irritated as usual.

"I got you one anyway," Robert told him and handed him one of the cups.

Sol reluctantly took the offered coffee. "Thanks, New Guy," he said.

Gambit took the elevator back down to the Lower Level, finding the floor completely quiet. He paused a moment, considering the strange absence of noise. He realized that the interminable hum of the servers had been silenced. Gambit set his coffee cup down onto a filing cabinet and walked through the door leading to the utility area, side exit, and bathrooms. There was a freight elevator as well as a set of metal stairs leading upwards. Gambit pulled out a black bag containing his work gear that he had stashed under the stairs. He pulled off Robert's button-down shirt and slacks revealing his form-fitted dark uniform. Gambit tossed his glasses into the bag and pulled on a mask covering his hair, nose, and mouth. Lastly, he donned a pair of red goggles to conceal his eyes. It wouldn't do to be recognized, not that he had any intention of getting caught.

While under the staircase, he heard the rumble and clang of the freight elevator doors banging shut from the floor above. Gambit paused and listened. He heard the elevator come down one level and the doors re-opened. A man exited the freight elevator pushing a pallet jack. Gambit recognized Jesus from behind. Jesus propped open the door to the office area and pushed the pallet jack through.

_What in the world is he doing?_ Gambit thought and followed slowly.

Peering into the office area and over the sea of cubicles, Gambit spied Jesus walking to the server room. Jesus opened the door with his security badge and entered. Keeping hidden below the cubicle walls, Gambit stalked over to the server room. He carefully looked around the open door to see an empty server rack. A second and a third rack had also been emptied. A fourth was in the process of being dismantled.

_Son of a...mother,_ Gambit thought and wished he hadn't given up swearing for Lent. _They're stealing the gosh-darned servers! Now why didn't I think of that?_

Sometimes the most obvious things went overlooked.

~ oOo ~

plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose – the more things change, the more they stay the same

certainement – most probably

*Daredevil #6-13

**But not really, on account of Carl Denti, aka X-Cutioner, tried to kill Gambit on a couple of occasions but then later felt kinda bad about it. As far as I know, Gambit doesn't know the two are the same person.


	13. The Angry One

**Sinister's London, Undiscovered Location**

**The Past, Seven Weeks Ago**

Five was spending less time lost in a fog and more time facing the harsh and terrifying reality of her existence. As she became more and more self-aware, she felt the danger increasing. Her need to escape became more urgent. She did not know where she was, except that she was in a portion of underground tunnels carved by Moloids, those underground denizens of The Mole King who had long been ousted by Sinister.* Five feared that by using her telepathy, by overextending her abilities, she might draw unnecessary attention to herself. Five both feared and loathed His Majesty, the Sinister Prime, and his insidious clones. Her hatred extended to the three other duplicates of herself as well, each of them some variation of the worst aspects of her personality. Five wondered which character flaw she embodied. She wasn't the controlling, domineering matron. She wasn't the jealous, power-starved harlot. Nor was she the apathetic, unfeeling person represented by clone Number Three; the one so cold and aloof that she allowed indignities and unfairness to pass by without an eye blink. All Five felt was fury and fiery defiance. She supposed that made her The Angry One, but it was an anger she had to keep in check until she could discover a way to escape. Five had no intention of acting as one of Sinister's receptacles, either as a host for the Phoenix Force or one of his repellent offspring. Unfortunately, failsafes planted within his clones prevented them from turning against him. Even the fantasy of Sinister Prime's death gave Five a terrible headache.

Until two days ago, Five had not seen the clone, Poppet, as Sinister Prime insisted on calling him. The last she had seen him was the day she'd spied him in the library. He had disappeared, apparently on some mission to do Sinister's bidding. Five had to wonder if it wasn't foolishness on Sinister's part to send the brain-addled clone out into the world and risk discovery. Perhaps desperate times called for desperate measures. Five realized Sinister must have known that Poppet was capable after all. The clone spontaneously reappeared to the delight of Sinister Prime and the amusement of no one else. Five had since seen Poppet trotting faithfully after his master like a happy puppy or antagonizing the rest of Sinister Prime's staff. Five didn't want to know what Sinister Prime's intentions for Poppet were. It didn't do her any good to feel empathy for another clone.

From her bedroom window she watched as Sinister Prime led the simpleminded Poppet into the stable for some nefarious purpose. She turned away from the window and returned to her bed. She lay down on top of the covers fully clothed and folded her hands over her stomach. She had a single selfish thought: as long as Prime's attentions were on the clone, she could have a momentary respite.

When she roused herself a few hours later it was to the sound of some commotion out in the courtyard. Five sat up and smoothed her red hair back from her face. She wandered to the window and peered down. Below was the cook, a stocky version of Sinister, dressed in an apron and white hat. He was shaking a portly fist in the air and shouting. Five's eyes rose to the far courtyard wall to see Poppet there, happily capering about the top of the wall like a monkey. He had a cleaver in one hand and a ladle in the other, apparently stolen from the cook who was ranting below. The butler appeared shortly after to add his own verbal abuse to the cook's tirade. Poppet responded by hurling the cleaver in their direction and laughing merrily as the pair dove to either side. Poppet then turned and presented his posterior to the angry cook and fuming butler.

Five heard herself laugh, an unexpected sound considering her circumstances. She put her hand to her mouth to cover her mirth. She thought that maybe the view from her room wasn't so bad after all. Poppet spun, welding the ladle like a saber and then fell off the wall to disappear over the side. Five gasped, suddenly concerned. The cook and the butler were apparently satisfied with this conclusion. They picked themselves up from the cobblestones and departed back to the kitchen. Five imagined that Poppet had dashed his head on the ground outside the courtyard walls. Later she found she shouldn't have worried.

Poppet turned up in the morning room, where Five's sisters were. She supposed this shouldn't have come as a surprise, however his presence was unwelcome. Two was entertaining the clone, mostly with her décolleté since her personality left something to be desired. One was at the desk, fuming to herself over a very boring book (as approved by His Majesty so as not to incite the female mind). Three was staring into the fireplace, ignoring everyone. Five nearly turned around and fled at the sight of Poppet standing there being patted and fondled by Two, who was crooning to him.

"Look, your buttons are all done wrong," Two told him and began to unbutton Poppet's shirt.

"This is beyond the bounds of propriety!" One said, aghast.

"Oh, hush," Two said and glanced over her shoulder at One. "He's wearing an undershirt, see? It's perfectly all right." She leaned in close to Poppet and continued to work her way down his chest. She breathed: "Let me fix you up."

One stood abruptly. "Get him out of here!" she commanded.

Three slowly regarded her, then turned to examine her nails.

Five felt in agreement with One. If Poppet was here, he would likely draw Sinister Prime's attention. The horrible man seemed to enjoy Poppet's company a little too much. Five told herself it was because he didn't have anyone to condescend to other than his four female clones. Talking to women was beneath him. And he could hardly patronize the clones he'd made of himself.

Two had finished unbuttoning Poppet's shirt and was holding his two shirt-tails in either hand. "I'll get you all straightened out, Poppet," she said coyly and tugged his shirt. "Ignore these prudish spinsters."

Two smoothed her hands over Poppet's chest while he stood there looking somewhat bewildered but exceedingly happy. Her hands slipped downwards to his trouser pockets. "You haven't anything for me, Poppet?" she asked, her head ducked low and her green eyes peering up through her eyelashes.

Five strode forward to seize Two's hand and pull her away.

"Leave him alone," Five snapped. Two's smiling countenance froze into a mask of disbelief. Her lascivious smile turned cruel.

"You speak out of turn, sister," Two said dangerously. "Take your hands off of me."

Five instead jerked her sister's arm forcefully, pulling her away from Poppet. Two was startled, and stumbled a few steps in her heels. Something fluttered from Poppet's pocket to land on the carpet before Five's feet. Five looked up to see Poppet staring at her raptly.

"What is this commotion?" asked a voice from the door. Five felt her blood turn to ice. "This is most disgraceful, ladies."

Five reluctantly turned to see Sinister Prime at the door to the morning room.

"I told the others he had to go," said One pompously.

"Did you?" Sinister said and coolly appraised One. "When once you were all in such perfect accord. I wonder..."

Five looked down at the carpet and placed her foot over the object that had fallen from Poppet's pocket. She spoke softly: "We agreed as well. It was Two who contradicted us."

Two glared at Five indignantly, her lip curling with disgust. "You little bint."

Sinister strode forward and took Two's arm, his hand curling around her bicep. "You mustn't try your delicate constitution, my dear," he told her. His other hand beckoned to Poppet. "Come along, Poppet," he said. Sinister departed with Two on one side and the hapless clone trailing behind him.

One slapped her book shut and turned away to stare out the mullioned window at nothing. Three continued to sit and do nothing. Five moved the toe of her shoe aside and slowly crouched to pick up the fallen object. When she rose, she turned away to face the wall, the item held covetously in her hand.

It was a feather. The feather was dun-colored with a white tip; a robin feather. There were no robins in Sinister's London, certainly not American robins. Five held it in her fingertips, turning it slowly by its quill. Poppet had found the feather somewhere, somewhere outside of Sinister's London. Poppet knew a way out. Of course he did, if he was doing Sinister's bidding. Perhaps Five could use him as a means of escape.

~ oOo ~

Five went looking for Poppet early the next morning, before the inhabitants of the upstairs rooms roused themselves. The downstairs staff would already be at work. She had never gone to the lower floors and was cautious when approaching the narrow side stairs that lead downwards. Five had a vague idea of the direction she would go in, moving west towards the back of the manor where the courtyard was. At the bottom of the stairs was a dimly lit hall. Five heard the clattering sounds of cookware from the room at the end of the hall. She paced slowly towards the open door, a bright blueish-white rectangle of light. Blinking her eyes in the light, she peered into the kitchen. She spied the cook at the stove, his back facing her.

There was a long wooden counter at the center of the kitchen covered with a dusting of flour and various pots, pans, and bowls. Beyond the counter was a large window overlooking the courtyard. Light spilled through it and into the kitchen. A door permitted entry to the courtyard. While the cook was stirring something vigorously (probably the horrible porridge that was fed to Five and her sisters every day), Five tiptoed lightly to the door. As she neared the door, she reached out with her telekinesis to turn the knob and pull the door open. It swung inwards silently and closed as she slipped through it.

She now found herself in the courtyard. Looking behind and upwards, she could see the window of her room. Five walked lightly across the cobblestones to the garage. The wood sliding door was slightly ajar and Five was able to sidle through the opening. The interior of the garage had a hard packed earth floor. Bits of straw where strewn about. Above, she could see the dusty loft where bales of hay and straw were once kept. Now bits of machinery were hung on chains from above. She saw the dark black limousine sitting in the middle of the open stable. It had been largely dismantled. Towards the rear of the stable was the rough construct of some sort of machine. Five walked forward to the first of several empty stalls that lined either side of the stable. She peered through the rusty bars and into the stall. It was empty save for the moldy straw heaped up in the corners. The rest of the stalls were empty as well, though one contained a pile of blankets and a wooden crate with the driver's cap set on top.

At the back of the stable, she found another wooden door. It was standing open. She saw it led to a narrow alley between the back of the stable and the courtyard's outer wall. There was a trickle of water running down the alley. Five stepped carefully on the uneven stones, trying to avoid getting her slippers wet. She looked to the right and left. Seeing that the right hand side seemed slightly brighter, Five turned and walked in that direction. One hand touched the stable wall on one side, the other felt along the rough stone courtyard wall. At the end of the alley, she found herself to be in a square alcove framed on all sides by walls. It was a small shade garden with mossy stones and a fountain. Above was the open air which let in the dim watery light from the cavern beyond. There was an iron gate in the wall. Beyond the bars, she could see the flash of movement.

Five walked to the gate and wrapped her hands around the bars. The gate swung open. She had never left the manor before, and now here she was looking at an open doorway. Outside there was a small dirt patch carved into the earth by the swinging gate. The rest was green grass. The light was significantly brighter beyond the wall, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. In the grass were several white chickens. They walked about, pecking and scratching in the grass. There was a coop along the back side of the courtyard wall. A man stepped out from it, walking backwards as he did and ducking so his head did not strike his head on the low doorframe. When he righted, Five saw it was Poppet. Poppet was holding a chicken by its scaled feet. The chicken flapped its wings and squawked angrily.

Poppet turned and saw Five. He stood still save for the bird flapping around in his hand. After a moment, he looked down at the chicken, righted it under his arm, and held it pinned to his side. He looked back at Five.

"Y'caught me with my cock in my hand," he said and gave her a laughing grin.

Five was taken aback. She didn't know the clone could speak, let alone make a joke. "Wh-what are you doing?" she asked him.

"Makin' soup," he told her. His hand wrapped around the chicken's neck. "For His Majesty's dinner."

"You're going to kill it?" Five asked.

"Cock's ain't good for nothin' but fightin', crowin', and makin' trouble," Poppet told her. He adjusted his grip on the bird.

"Please, don't," she said and held out her hand to stop him.

He stared at her, seemingly at a loss for what to do next. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked.

Five was hungry. She ate little of what was put on her plate. She detested everything Sinister served her. "You can...do it after. After I leave," Five told him.

Poppet seemed agreeable to that, and he patted the rooster's chest. It tried to peck him viciously.

Five took a few steps towards Poppet. He was dressed in a rough cotton shirt, a dark green vest, a brown overcoat, and dark trousers stuffed into his tall boots. There was straw in his hair, which was cut short on the sides, but longer on top, neatly parted and brushed back from his face. His face was smoothly shaven. Five supposed that Sinister Prime preferred him to look tidy. He was dressed and groomed very unlike the man he was cloned from.

"Do you remember anything," Five asked. "From before?"

"Before what?" he asked.

"Before you were here."

Poppet shook his head to either side.

"You don't have any memories?" she asked.

He shrugged noncommittally.

Five reached her fingers into her sleeve and withdrew the feather. "Where did this come from?" she asked, showing him the feather.

"The park," he told her.

"What park?" she asked, trying to be patient.

"The big park," he responded.

"Is there a big park here?" Five asked and extended her arms to indicate their cavernous surroundings.

Poppet shook his head. "No, upside."

"Upside?" Five pointed upwards. "Above ground?"

He nodded.

"Can you tell me what the park looks like, Poppet?" she asked.

Poppet was happy to comply. "Trees and grass. Lots of animals."

"Birds?"

"And lions and monkeys. In cages."

Five blinked. "What else?"

"Alice."

"Who is Alice?" Five asked.

"De girl who fell down de rabbit hole."

Five withheld her excitement. "Is there a city? Tall buildings?"

Poppet nodded.

Five knew of a large park surrounded by buildings, with a zoo and a statue of Alice in Wonderland; Central Park. "Do you think you could take me there?" she asked evenly.

Poppet shook his head again. "It's far."

"That – that's okay. I can walk. I'd like to see the park. Please take me."

"I can't," and he looked somewhat sad at this. "You have t'stay here. I was told. Stay here, except encase."

"Encase?" Five repeated, not liking the sound of that. "Encase...what does–?"

"Encase of emergency," Poppet said.

"In case," Five said softly, then asked. "What happens if there is an emergency?"

Poppet shrugged. "Then we run."

~ oOo ~

Five went to the library and selected a book from the lowest shelf. She opened it and tore one of the end-pages from the back cover, folded the paper, and tucked it into her sleeve. She found an ink pen on the blotter on top of a nearby desk. Five picked it up and tucked it into her hair, where it was hidden in her snood. Five was walking past the ornate dividing screen and into the main hall when she was brought up short by her sister, Two.

"What are you doing?" Two asked her, her eyes narrowing.

"Looking for a suitable book," Five answered and moved to walk past Two.

Two stepped into her path. "You lie," she said softly. "You don't fool me." Two reached out and snatched at Five's wrist. Five jerked her arm back, but not before Two heard the soft crumple of paper from within Five's sleeve.

"What do you have?" Two demanded, her hands now clawing at Five's arm as Five backed away.

"Don't touch me!" Five said, pushing her twin back with one hand.

Two opened her mouth to protest when suddenly, something dropped from above to land with a splat on Two's head. Two shrieked. Yellow yolk ran down the side of Two's face. Five craned her neck to look at the balcony above. Poppet was sitting on the balcony rail overlooking the main hall, his legs dangling. He grinned down at Five, then lobbed another egg into the air.

Two skittered back and the egg landed on the floor tiles, splattering over her shoes. She glared up at Poppet. "Wretched creature," she snarled. There came a flapping sound and the rooster appeared upon the balcony rail as well. It strutted down the railing, paused, and then crowed. Two wiped egg from her face with one hand. She made a disgusted sound.

Five put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. She looked up at Poppet who was juggling an egg in either hand. He made as if to throw another, making Two flinch. Five laughed. Two stared daggers at Five.

"Do you think yourself my better?" Two asked heatedly. "You're wrong. His Majesty favors me." Two put her hand to her belly. "And I will be the queen."

Two turned in a huff. She fled from the hall, leaving Five and Poppet behind.

Five started up the staircase to the balcony. Poppet turned to watch her progress, straddling the railing. The rooster continued down the railing, his head bobbing. Five came to a halt in front of Poppet and he hopped off the railing to stand. He held out an egg. Five took it in her palm. The egg was slightly warm. He held out the other egg in his right hand with his index finger and thumb. He covered the egg with his opposite hand and when he drew his hands apart again, he revealed that the egg had disappeared. Poppet made a gulping sound, cupped a hand over his mouth, and suddenly, the egg reappeared in his hand.

"How did you do that?" Five asked, amused.

"Couldn't say," Poppet said and tossed the egg to his opposite hand.

"Because a magician never reveals his secrets?" Five asked.

Poppet shook his head. "I dont – know...?" He seemed confused and then anxious.

Five put her hand to his arm. "It's all right," she told him. "It's okay if you don't remember. That's probably for the best."

" _Weh, ma chère_ ," Poppet agreed.

Five looked into his eyes, his perfectly candid expression. She supposed she should feel pity for him. But he seemed happily oblivious. Maybe she should envy him instead.

"I wonder if you can help me, Poppet," Five said. "I need to send a message to someone. Do you think you can deliver it for me?"

Poppet turned his head slightly and smiled at her slyly. "Mm...maybe," he said. "What's in it for me?"

Five stared for a moment, then cast a glance around. Seeing no one, she reached out and took him by the shirtfront and pulled him down slightly. Five tilted her head and brought her lips to his, leaving a lingering kiss there. She released him and stepped back a pace. Poppet rubbed his chin and looked at her thoughtfully, a smile on his face.

"I would have done it for a please and thank you," he told her.

Five let out a little exasperated sound. She smiled and shook her head. "Can you meet me in my room later?" she asked. "Without anyone seeing you? Please?"

Poppet grinned and nodded. Five took him by the arm and guided him to the clock at the end of the hall. "When the big hand is on the twelve and the little one is on the ten," she told him and pointed.

Poppet opened the glass door in front of the clock face. He adjusted the big hand. When Five looked at him questioningly, he said: "It was a minute too soon."

~ oOo ~

Five was in her room sitting on the stool in front of her vanity. She had the page she had ripped from the book set on the vanity top. The pen was in her hand. She wrote carefully. At the end of the letter, she slowly wrote out the four letters that spelled her name. Her hand trembled and the pen spluttered out a spot of ink. Five picked up the note and fanned it dry. She folded it and looked about her room for a way to seal the letter. She retrieved a needle and thread from her sewing kit. The end paper from the book was stiff. She made a few stitches through the paper. On the outside she wrote: Scott Summers, The Xavier School for Higher Learning, 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, New York. She didn't have a return address.

Five put the letter beneath her pillow. She picked up the egg Poppet had given her from the nightstand. It felt solid to her, so she tapped it on the edge of the nightstand. She found it had been hard-boiled. Five sat on her bed and peeled the egg, putting the shell into a handkerchief on her lap. She held the egg to her lips for a moment, feeling the smooth wet egg white against her lips. She bit into it and chewed with her eyes closed. It had been a long time since she had tasted anything. Five tried not to eat the egg too fast, but soon enough it was gone. She wished Poppet had given her the second egg as well.

She heard the clock chime and she looked at her door, waiting. A minute passed. Five tried not to be impatient. Her hands clutched the handkerchief in her lap, crunching the shells. Finally, she stood and tossed the handkerchief into the fireplace. She turned away from the fire to see a figure silhouetted in her window. Five startled. She put her hand to her chest to still her racing heart and exhaled. Five pulled open the window and Poppet climbed through.

"You're so quiet," she told him. "I can't even hear your thoughts."

"I haven't got any," he said to her, and his smile flashed in the dim light. She saw that he had a gap between his front teeth.

Five stepped back from him to retrieve the letter. He followed her closely, so when she turned around, he was standing over her. He smelled like the inside of the stable, hay and dust and wet earth. She took his hand and put the letter into it. "Take this to the park," she told him. "Give it to someone. Someone who looks nice. A woman. Be your most charming self. Ask her to put it in the post for you."

Poppet smiled down at her, his eyes glowing softly in the darkness.

"Do you understand?" she asked. "This letter has to go to this address. Okay?"

He nodded and put the letter into his inside coat pocket. " _Weh, ma chère_."

Five was nervous. She was worried Poppet would be caught with the note. She worried he didn't really understand what she was asking. It was a terrible risk, and she had no assurances that it would work and the letter would find its way to the address. She prayed it would. If Poppet was instructed not to take her from this place except in an emergency, then she would have to create an emergency of her own. Who better to raise hell than the X-Men?

* * *

*Uncanny X-Men Vol. II #14


	14. Personal Politics

**Washington, D.C.**

**The Past, Seven Weeks Ago**

The administrative assistant set the phone receiver back into its cradle and looked up at him. "Senator DesJarlais will see you now," she said and stood, smoothing her hands down her slim pencil skirt.

Carl Denti thought the woman quite pretty, something he'd been given time to consider since he'd been sitting in the office lobby for the last twenty minutes. She was also very young, perhaps fresh out of college. Denti stood slowly, rising to his full height which was nearly a foot over the young woman. He held a folder of documents in one large hand; a RAP sheet and petition to expunge the record for one, Remy LeBeau. Denti followed the admin to the dark mahogany door of the Senator's office. She turned the handle and pushed the door inward. She smiled tightly at him as he passed before her and into the office beyond.

"Mr. DeJarlais," the admin said, "Mr. Denti, to see you."

"Thank you, Tracy," the man said warmly as he walked from behind his desk to greet Denti.

"May I get you anything?" Tracy asked politely.

"Mr. Denti, something to drink? Water? Coffee?" DesJarlais asked as he took Denti's hand in his own.

For a moment, Denti didn't speak. He paused to look at the man standing before him in a well-tailored suit. The Senator looked uncannily familiar; though his hair was silver, his warm-complectioned face lined at the eyes and mouth, and his eyes a dark brown, he looked remarkably like the thief Denti had come to this office to represent.

"Mr. Denti?" DesJarlais prompted, his pale brows rising.

"Uhm, no. Thank you," Denti finally said, resolving in his mind that the French of Louisiana must all look alike. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Senator."

"Please, call me Ray," the man smiled. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

Denti folded himself into the soft leather chair. The surrounding office had plush navy blue carpeting, a polished cherry wood desk, and shelves of books lining the walls. It was afternoon, and the late day sun filtered through the tall windows to make the white wood-paneled walls glow orange.

"Thank you for taking the time to see me," Denti told the Senator.

The man waved away his thanks. "It's no trouble at all. And it's past time we met formally, now that you've been given a position on the Subcommittee staff."

Denti gave a single nod. "Yes, sir."

The Senator relaxed back into his office chair. "I've taken a gander at your credentials," he said. "You're certainly a welcome addition. Frankly, I'm surprised my colleagues from across the aisle were able to make such a wise decision as to hire you."

Denti processed the insult to his new bosses, delivered so genteelly in that long-voweled southern accent. He might have frowned incrementally.

"I speak in jest, Mr. Denti," DesJarlais said and smiled. "To have someone with your background...your study in law, your experience as an FBI agent – interacting directly with terrorists – your interrogation skills...All invaluable assets to bring to the table. In fact, you may be overqualified."

"Thank you, sir," Denti said and shifted the folder from one hand to the other.

" _Ray_ ," DesJarlais insisted. "So, other than introductions, is there something you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Yes, sir," Denti said. "I have something of a favor to ask –."

"A little early in your political career to be asking for personal favors, isn't it?"

Denti wasn't sure how to reply.

"Carl, you don't seem to appreciate my levity."

"Ah. Yes. I'm sorry. Sir," Denti said.

DesJarlais looked at him with some concern. "No, my apologies. Perhaps I should be more sensitive. You haven't had much to be cheerful about in your career. Your partner was killed, wasn't he? In the line of duty?"

Denti felt a stillness settle upon him as he often did when thinking about Fred Duncan and the circumstances of his death, and how that death had shaped so much of what Denti had become. But he'd been given time to reflect and certain insight to the people he'd once targeted as the X-Cutioner. He slowly realized that he'd be better served emulating Duncan's _life_ rather than seeking revenge for his death, as Duncan had once been a member of Xavier's underground network. Sitting in DesJarlais' office now was one small way to try to repair the damage he'd done. If he had to admit the truth to himself, he'd confess having sympathy for the (former?) X-Man Gambit, because Denti himself did the wrong things for the right reasons. He was also motivated by a sense of honor...or was that guilt?

"Yes," Denti said finally. "That was some time ago."

"It must open old wounds, this affair with the Phoenix Force wreaking havoc on the planet. Mutants killing indiscriminately with little to no repercussion," DesJarlais continued. "I understand this Cyclops fellow has been sent to a federal prison. Seems an act of global terrorism should come with a stiffer penalty than living off the American taxpayer in a jail cell."

"That is something I'm sure we can discuss in committee," Denti said slowly. "At the scheduled hearing. Though I'd be happy to share a draft of my preliminary findings with you."

DesJarlais shifted his tone. "Of course. But you were saying something about a favor?"

Denti placed the folder onto DesJarlais' desktop. "I have a...resource...who requested that his juvenile record be expunged. I'm asking this as a favor to him. He's a Louisianan, and I thought it might help his request along if he had your signature on his petition."

"You've got yourself a felon on the payroll?" DesJarlais asked and picked up the file. He raised an eyebrow, but his expression was pleasantly mild.

"It was a – youthful indiscretion," Denti said, using Gambit's own words to describe the incident. "A prank, I think. Stealing a mail truck."

DesJarlais had opened the file and was reading the RAP sheet with a vague smile. "Nothin' I wouldn't understand. I myself made a mistake as a young man." He looked over the top of the folder at Denti. "One rare occasion it had snowed in Lafayette. I made a snowball. And then tossed it at the side of a passing school bus. Unfortunately, the driver's side window was open and my aim was a little too good. Four years on the pitcher's mound..."

"I hope no one was hurt," Denti said.

DesJarlais shook his head. "No, thank the good Lord. Well, except for me and my backside after my daddy got ahold of me." DesJarlais continued to smile as he glanced over the document, flipping one sheet of paper over to reveal the next. Young Remy LeBeau's arrest record had been quite extensive. DesJarlais placed the folder onto his desk and turned to the final page. His expression seemed to freeze on his face and his eyes flicked up to look at Denti.

"Just what are you asking for, Mr. Denti?" the Senator asked, his voice steely.

Caught for a moment off guard, Denti loosely gestured to the documents. "The...petition, sir. Ray. Your signature –."

DesJarlais sat stiffly, his hands lightly gripping the arms of his office chair. "I think you've proved what a clever investigator you are, Carl. Now, what is it you _want_?" DesJarlais closed the folder, but not before tearing the final page from the sheaf of documents and folding it over his forefinger.

Denti considered the Senator for a moment. "This man is an asset in the field. I only hoped to clear him from an incidental mistake he'd made as a child."

"Do you think to embarrass me?" the Senator asked. "What do you hope to gain from this?"

"If you're reluctant to sign the petition because the man in question is a mutant, I assure you this is not an attack on your – position on the mutant issue," Denti informed him while carefully studying DesJarlais' reaction. "None of this will ever be public knowledge."

DesJarlais' gaze narrowed. When he spoke, his voice was no longer warm and welcoming, but hard and dark. "So I see what game you're playing at, Carl. That's a shame. I'd hoped we could work together. See eye-to-eye. But you're more ambitious than I thought."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Denti replied.

DesJarlais' smile was brittle. "No? Maybe not yet. Until you find a way to use your leverage...whenever that may be. But you've made your point very clear. Have a pleasant evening, Carl."

Apparently, Denti was being dismissed. He stood and picked up the folder from the Senator's desk. "Sorry to have interrupted your day," he told the Senator stoically and turned to leave.

Denti stepped out of the office and paced down the white wood-paneled hall. From behind him, he could hear the admin pick up the receiver and speak into it. She stood and entered the office. In the parking lot, Denti climbed into his rental car and checked the time. He would be even earlier for his flight back to New York than he thought. Denti reached back into the backseat of the vehicle to retrieve his briefcase. He opened it and was about to place Remy LeBeau's file into the case when he he opened the folder instead. DesJarlais had taken the mug shot of the teenage Remy LeBeau. Denti closed the folder and placed it under another file folder. This one was quite a bit larger, as it represented a forty-some year career in politics. Denti had done some background research on the Senator before he arrived at the office.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. The phone rang twice before going to voice mail. "LeBeau," Denti said curtly. "I need to schedule another sit-down with you. I'm on my way to New York. In the meantime, maybe you should do your civic duty and take a closer look at your state representative. Honoré DesJarlais."

Denti had time to comb through the Senator's file on his flight back to New York. It was a simple enough matter to look back on the Senator and his Congressional record through the THOMAS database, the bills he sponsored and voted for. He also found the Senator's list of staff, past and present. Denti should have known that anything involving Gambit would likely lead to trouble of some kind. Denti needed to know why the Senator believed he was being blackmailed and what it had to do with the thief. It seemed such a strange... _coincidence_.

Denti began to get a picture of what the Senator might be concerned about when he found the rider appended to a bill DesJarlais sponsored nearly thirty years ago. The earmarked funds in the bill would have expanded an ongoing project named Black Womb. At this, Denti paused. He knew that name from the records he'd acquired after Fred Duncan's death. It was an enormous catalog of mutants, many of them now dead. Denti kept a spreadsheet generated from the database on his laptop. He opened the file containing the list of names and began to scroll through the records. He found nothing on the list of mutants still living and was about to move on to the records of the deceased when he reopened the list of the Senator's staff. It was a simple enough matter to paste the entries into a new column and cross reference the list against the mutant entries. One name appeared in both columns: Moreux. Denti stared at the name for several moments waiting for his mind to come to some conclusion. But by that time, the fasten-seatbelt had turned on and he was forced to stow his laptop away.

When the jet landed in LaGuardia and began to taxi to the gate, Denti turned his phone back on, hoping for a message from LeBeau. He had a text waiting for him from the thief. Denti read it and frowned.

The text message read: problem bank. _MX City about 2 mak BIG withdrawl @ bank. lil help, svp_?

* * *

svp – s'il vous plaît – please

Next time: Poppet postal service.


	15. Postal Service

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Logan's worn cowboy boots crunched down the gravel path leading to the front gate. His breath fogged the chill morning air. It was early spring and the morning had dawned on a world of soft color, the surrounding landscape muted under a layer of frost. In spite of the cold, he was bare-armed, the sleeves of his thermal shirt rolled up to his elbows. The fresh air was bracing, the morning a still respite from the usual chaos of the school behind him. Logan was walking to the mailbox, his head down, ears alert to the sound of the birds in the trees. A robin jogged across the lawn, emitting two chirps of warning as Logan approached.

He passed through the gates to the end of the drive. The mailbox door gave a soft screech of protest as he pulled it open. Logan reached into the interior and pulled out a thick sheaf of envelopes, catalogs, and magazines. He held the bundle against his chest and idly flicked through the contents. It was then he sensed someone nearby, though it was not a particular scent or sound but a strange sensation in the air. Logan's eyes glanced upward to see the school's sign; a concrete block framed in red brick, the school's name carved into the smooth slab. There was a man sitting on top of it. Logan started and took a pace backward. The man on top of the sign was not looking at him, but peering upside-down at the sign. He was holding a gray piece of paper in his hand and comparing the writing on it to the words on the sign.

"Gambit, what the hell?" Logan called and the man glanced up revealing red and black eyes.

Gambit smiled and said: " _Bon matin_."

Logan shoved the packet of mail under his arm. "Isn't it early for you, not to mention cold?"

Gambit exhaled a plume of condensation that fogged the air. "Cold, yes."

Logan continued: "Kitty is pissed that you skipped out of that test, Bobby is complaining about having to take over all the study halls, there's girls crying in the bathroom every other day, and the whole school smells like canned fish on account of Joanna refusing to cook anything other than tuna noodle casserole for the last two weeks. So where have you been?"

Gambit hopped down off the sign. "London," he answered.

"London?" Logan repeated irritably.

The thief nodded. "Underground," he added.

Logan shook his head, having no patience for Gambit's vague answers. Now that the young man was standing before him, Logan saw that Gambit was dressed more peculiarly than usual, which was saying something. Logan wasn't usually one to notice these kinds of things, but the change was appearance-altering. "Did you cut your hair?" he asked incredulously.

" _Non_. Someone else did," Gambit replied. He extended his hand, the gray scrap of paper held in his fingertips. "I have a message. I drew you a picture to London on th'back," Gambit informed him and stared at Logan with an absentminded grin on his face.

Logan paced forward and snatched the paper from Gambit's grip, then shoved it into the pile of mail under his arm.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Logan demanded.

Gambit glanced down at Logan's feet, then crouched abruptly. Logan took a step back when Gambit straightened again, a bright purple flower held between his forefinger and thumb. "You crushed it," Gambit told Logan as he twirled the flower on its broken stem.

"Did you fall on your head?" Logan asked. In this proximity, he noticed that the thief even smelled different. He smelled like mud and wet stone. There was no scent of cigarettes on him, which probably explained the sudden change.

Gambit put the flower to his nose. "It doesn't smell," he observed.

"You need to go see a doctor," Logan informed him. "You have a concussion or something."

Gambit pocketed the flower. "I have to go back to _ma chère_ ," he said. "I'll be missed." He then turned and ambled off down Greymalkin Lane towards the main road into town.

"Well, that just figures," Logan grumbled and began to walk back to the school.

Logan passed though the west entrance and made his way towards the school offices. He found Kitty and Bobby in the main office. Kitty was seated behind a desk. Bobby, reclining in his chair before the desk with his feet propped up, was eating a bowl of cereal.

"Mail," Logan said when the pair looked up at him. He walked over to Bobby and began flicking envelopes at him. "Bill, bill, bill..." he said, tossing one letter after the other into Bobby's lap. Bobby sat up abruptly, trying to balance his bowl in one hand and collect the mail in the other before it dropped to the ground.

"Logan, the inboxes are over there," Kitty said and pointed to the wooden cubbies set in the wall, each with a name below it printed neatly on a label.

Logan walked to the cubbies and crammed the wad of mail into Kitty's mailbox. "There. Happy?"

Kitty sighed and stood, proceeded to the mailbox and began sorting the envelopes into their respective places. "Hey, what's this?" she asked and held out a thick yellow envelope. Kitty phased her hand through the envelope and pulled out a stack of documents. Her eyes grew wide. "Hey!" she announced, a grin spreading over her face.

"What is it?" Bobby asked, setting his bowl onto the desk.

Kitty turned the documents around and held them to her chest. "It's a student application! Like, a real application. For the school, our school! Filled out and everything!"

Bobby stood and took the top document to study it. "This must be some kind of hoax."

"No, look!" Kitty said and brandished a check. "With a tuition check! And school transcripts... and a letter of recommendation! This is legit!" She danced from one foot to the other and pointed at Logan. "And you said the website was a waste of time!"

Logan snatched the check from her hand. "Hunh," he said, turning the check over to study it front and back.

Bobby read the application. "Jean La Gricks," he said aloud and handed the document to Logan.

Logan glanced over the paper. "It's pronounced _John_ , not Jean," he said. "Jean-Jacques LeGrix."

"French?" Kitty asked, looking over the rest of the paperwork.

"Hails from New Orleans," Logan replied.

"Oh, hey, so we could have Gambit mentor the kid. Maybe it will make him feel at home," Kitty said.

"Yeah, if Gambit ever turns up," Bobby added.

"I just saw him at the end of the drive," Logan told the pair.

"Where in the heck has he been?" Bobby asked. "I'm sick of study hall."

"And teenage boys say _the_ grossest things ever," Kitty said. "I need Gambit to handle all this perversion."

"Forget it. Gambit wandered off. He's lost his mind over some woman," Logan said.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Bobby said dryly as he began sorting the remainder of the mail.

"I'm serious," Logan continued. "You shoulda seen him. Hair cut, face shaved, weird clothes. It's like he's a completely different person."

"Aw! He's twitterpated," Kitty said.

"He's what?" Logan asked.

"That's Kitty's nice way of saying Gambit is whipped," Bobby said and Kitty stabbed him in the side with her forefinger. "Ow!"

"What's her name? What does she look like? When can we meet her?" Kitty asked in rapid fire style.

"I don't know," Logan said. "I didn't ask."

"Logan! These are all very important questions and I _need to know_!" Kitty exclaimed.

"I've got better things to do than worry about Gambit's love life," Logan said. "Like what about this student? Shouldn't we go pick him up before someone else does? Like, say, Magneto?"

Kitty consulted the paperwork. "Right now, he's abroad with his parents. He's scheduled to arrive April First."

"April Fools Day. See, I told you it was a hoax," Bobby said and shoved an academic journal into Hank's mailbox.

"It's the day after spring break," Kitty said, rolling her eyes at him.

"Who takes a teenage kid abroad for a month?" Logan asked, holding the check up to the light. "Maybe his folks are loaded."

"Overprotective too, is my guess," Kitty said, flipping over pages. "Seems he spent a lot of time in the hospital. You should see the list of the things this kid is allergic to. Sheesh. He probably has to live in a bubble."

"Maybe it has something to do with his mutant power?" Bobby asked. "There's a field for that, right? On the application?"

"Chronokinesis," Kitty read. "And chronopathy."

"Which is what, exactly?" Bobby asked, turning a gray envelope over to study it.

Kitty shrugged. "I guess we'll be finding out, won't we?"

"Sounds like trouble," Logan grumbled.

"But if a new mutant surfaced, why didn't we know about it?" Kitty asked.

"Hoax," Bobby said absently. "Hey, there's a letter for Sc – uh, Cyclops. What do we do with it?"

"Shitcan it," Logan snapped.

"You can't do that. That's tampering with mail," Kitty said and took the envelope from Bobby. "This is weird. There's no stamp. And it's sewn shut."

Logan glanced at the envelope. Kitty was looking at the strange scribble scrawled across the back of the envelope. Logan saw the handwriting on the front and recognized it. He pulled it from Kitty's hands and stared at it. He snapped the thread holding the envelope closed and opened the note. His eyes scanned the contents, coming to the shaky signature at the bottom.

"Logan, what is it?" Kitty asked.

"It's Jean," he replied, his eyes glued to the letter.

"Don't you mean ' _John_ '?" Bobby asked.

Logan extended the letter to Bobby. He took it, somewhat reluctantly. Looking down to read the note, he said: "It...can't be. This isn't – it's not _Jean_ Jean? Right?"

Kitty peered over his shoulder. "Maybe this could be a hoax?"

"And if it's not?" Bobby asked.

"If it's a hoax, we find who wrote that note," Wolverine said and extended his claws to indicate how he intended to respond to the letter. "And if it's not...It means Sinister somehow survived the Phoenix Force's assault. And Jean, or someone believing she's Jean, is his prisoner."

* * *

Next time: Who's your daddy?


	16. Father & Son Time

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, Eleven Years Ago**

Remy opened the door to his father's study to find the room empty. He let out a long exhalation before opening the door just wide enough to allow himself to slip through. Remy turned and quietly closed the door, releasing the worn crystal doorknob slowly. He stood for a moment, staring at the wood grain of the paneled door and collecting his thoughts. Resolved, he turned away from the door and walked to his father's desk. The afternoon light fell from the window across the papers on Jean-Luc's desk. Remy had his books with him, tucked under his arm along with his notebook. He set them down onto the desktop and picked up a stack of manila folders. Inside each one was a contract for a potential client, along with any research and supporting documents for the job. Remy opened one and scanned it, set it down and opened the second. His heart was beating erratically in his chest. Remy swallowed his nervousness and chose a folder at random, then shoved it amidst his books and papers.

He acted not a moment too soon, because just then Jean-Luc opened the door. The man was looking down at a sheaf of papers he held in his hands. He glanced up to see Remy standing before his desk. Jean-Luc's expression was curious, but before he could inquire as to what Remy was doing at his desk, Remy picked up a pen and stalked away to the small table set in front of the window.

"Mind you put that back when you're done," Jean-Luc told his son's back as Remy pulled out the wooden desk chair and sank into it. Remy didn't reply, but opened his schoolbook and stared blankly at the pages within.

While Jean-Luc took his seat at his desk, Remy leaned over his schoolwork with the pen in hand. He doodled in his notebook for several minutes. After what seemed like an agonizingly long period of time, Remy managed to balance the first equation in his long list of problems to solve.

" _Sois calme, frétillon_ ," his father said and Remy cringed. He hadn't realized he'd been tapping his feet. He placed one foot and then the other behind the front legs of his chair. Jean-Luc riffled through papers at his desk, searching for something.

Remy stared out the window into the front yard. He felt hot. He'd begun to sweat. He couldn't focus on the book in front of him. His head hurt. The figures swam before his eyes and with a sigh, he lay face down, his nose pressed into the book's spine.

"Remy," Jean-Luc said. Remy felt his shoulders tense. "Remy, come over here."

Remy sat upright and turned a page in his notebook. He copied down the next problem. He heard Jean-Luc stand and approach. Remy felt the back of Jean-Luc's knuckles brush the side of his face. He flinched.

"You look pale. Are you ill?" Jean-Luc asked, and lay his broad hand across Remy's forehead. "You feel hot."

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his father's hand on his head. Then he pulled away. Jean-Luc sighed.

"I know you're angry wit' me," Jean-Luc told the back of his son's head. "Believe me when I tell you I only want to keep you out of trouble."

When Remy didn't respond, Jean-Luc continued: "I know you had a rough time these past few months. I know you've been tested. I know it's not been easy, but it's not more'n you can handle."

Remy gritted his teeth, feeling another surge of anger fuel the heat in his face. _Who are you trying to convince, me or you?_ he thought. Then all at once the anger went out of him, leaving him feeling exhausted. His body went slack and he slouched in his chair.

"I'm sorry, Remy," Jean-Luc said, and set his hand on top of Remy's head, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "You should go rest. You can finish your schoolwork tomorrow."

Remy didn't want to go back to his room. He didn't want to let himself enjoy his father's sympathy either. He felt guilty about taking the folder, then he felt the theft was justified. He should have felt the rush, the thrill of success stealing usually brought him. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach. He felt like punching someone in the face, preferably his future-self. Then he couldn't decide what to feel. He watched as his father leaned forward to gather up his schoolwork. He thought maybe Jean-Luc would find the stolen folder amongst his books. He thought he might like to be caught.

The door to Jean-Luc's study opened. There was a short rap of knuckles on the door as his sister-in-law, Mercy, leaned her head into the room. Jean-Luc turned to look at her.

"Enh, Jean-Luc. I need a few things from de market for dinner," she said.

Remy shot out of his chair as if he were fired from a gun. "I'll go," he told her quickly.

Mercy regarded him archly. "Really?" she said disbelievingly. It wasn't often that Remy was particularly helpful.

Remy gathered his books and looked at his father. "I can go," he told him. They were the first words he'd spoken to Jean-Luc in over a week.

Jean-Luc considered Remy for a moment. "All right," he finally relented. "Some fresh air would do you good." Jean-Luc took his wallet from the interior pocket of his jacket and handed a folded twenty-dollar bill to Remy.

As Remy started toward the door, Jean-Luc told him: "I'll expect you back in an hour."

Remy glanced over his shoulder at Jean-Luc, whose face had returned to its normally stern expression. Mercy stood in the open doorway with her hand on her hip. She held out a list of groceries. Remy took it from her.

"You get what's on dis list, hear?" she said. "I don't want no surprises."

Remy made a face at Mercy and slipped past her and into the hall. He jogged down the staircase to the ground floor. In the kitchen, he picked up his canvas carryall from the row of hooks by the door. He dropped his books into it. The grocery list and the twenty he shoved into his front pockets. Lastly, he took his jacket from where it was hung and pulled it on. He pushed out the back door and ran to the shed where he kept his bike. It was a regular bicycle, not the sport bike he wanted. He climbed onto it and shoved off down the bumpy gravel drive to the street. He arced across the pavement, building momentum by standing on the pedals of the bike. The early spring air blew in his face, cooling the heat he felt in his cheeks. He raced down the street, the sentinel of Big Charity loomed in the distance.

Remy reached the hospital in a fraction of the time it took to walk there. He coasted through the main entryway into the grassy courtyard of Big Charity, pulled his bike up to the bike rack, and chained the bicycle there. He glanced up at the sky, which was just beginning to darken with heavy purple clouds. Remy walked under the covered walkway flanking either side of the main entrance and leaned up against the curving railing. He opened his canvas bag and removed the folder he'd stolen. Remy opened the folder and looked over the contents. His heart leapt. The client was located in New York. Remy was convinced this was fate. His trepidation left him in a rush, leaving excitement in its wake. The papers in his hands fluttered, and he saw that his hands were shaking.

_Calm down_ , he told himself and drew a breath. Lights were dancing before his eyes and he tried to blink them away. In the distance, he could hear a low rumble of thunder.

It would still be awhile before dark and he didn't know when his future-self would arrive. Remy put the folder back into his bag and removed the list of dates and times from his back pocket. The schedule his future-self had given him was beginning to show wear from being folded and refolded. Remy glanced over the list. According to this schedule, he was supposed to be in his room doing homework. He experienced a brief flash, and he could picture himself on his bed staring down into his math book. Dizziness swept over him and he had to grasp the railing to keep from falling. The list fell from his hand to flutter to the ground. Remy waited until the vertigo passed. Could it be he'd changed the future already? A gust of wind caught the list and sent it tumbling. Remy lurched after it.

As he stumbled after the schedule, he wondered: if he'd changed the future, what would happen to his future-self? Would he cease to exist? Would he return to his own time to find it changed? Or had Remy only changed his own future, and his future-self was now on a different path? Were there now two of him? Were there multiple timelines? Remy's hand grazed the wall and he came to a halt, seized by panic. _What had he done?_

The schedule caught itself against the stone facade and Remy slowly walked up to it. When he crouched to retrieve it, he glanced up to see his future-self walking across the hospital courtyard.

"Hey!" he called, but his future-self was walking away to enter the hospital. Remy watched as his twin disappeared though the front doors. Remy moved to follow.

He passed through the front doors and into the main hall. He saw his twin far down the hall, turning the corner.

_Where is he going?_ Remy asked himself. He dodged around the people in the hall, following after his wayward twin. He turned the corner and heard footfalls coming from the descending stairwell. Remy leaned over the silver railing and peered downwards. His future-self was disappearing around the turn in the staircase. Remy continued down the steps. He found himself on a lower floor. It was quiet. There was a pair of swinging doors before him. Remy walked to the doors and stood on his toes to peer through the small square window. He spied his twin slipping into a room. Remy pushed through the swinging door and into a hall lit with ugly yellow light. His footfalls on the linoleum tiles were the only sound. He approached the door he'd seen his twin vanish into. He pushed the metal bar to open the heavy steel door. The room beyond was dark as pitch.

"Hey," he hissed into the darkness. "Where are you?"

His hand reached out to feel along the wall for a light switch. The room was suddenly ablaze with harsh fluorescent lighting. He blinked in the glare. The room was round in shape, and descended in tiers to an oval floor below. It was an operating theater. He felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh. There was a soft creak of wood from below. Remy approached the waist-high wall and peered over to the next tier below. He experienced a jolt of surprise. There was a man seated on a wooden bench. As the man looked up at Remy, his appearance began to shift. Remy's mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. The man, who was pale in the harsh light, had dark black hair. His eyes changed from brown to red; not bloodshot, but dark red in color like Remy's own. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

"You are lost, young man," the man told him as he rose to stand. He was dressed in a white coat, like a doctor.

"N-no," Remy stuttered. "I...I volunteer here. I took a wrong turn." Remy began to back up towards the door as the man turned to him.

The man took the stair to bring himself to the upper tier to stand before Remy. "Lost and in need of a guiding hand."

Remy stared at the man, transfixed by his gaze. "Are you a doctor here?" he asked.

"No, not a doctor _here_. But I was present the night of your birth. And I've been waiting some time to meet you...son."

~ oOo ~

Sinister had found Remy LeBeau not long after the boy's mutant powers had manifested. The boy had been taken in by a secretive and ancient cult of thieves that predated the ancient Apocalypse himself. Sinister believed that the boy's living situation could potentially be exploited. He had even enlisted the child to steal a diary from the Weapon X facility.* Unfortunately, young Remy's independent mindset proved greater than his conditioning under the Thieves' Guild tutelage. After witnessing the horrors within the Weapon X facility, the boy had destroyed the item he'd been charged to steal, failing in his mission. It displeased Sinister to see the boy so free-willed and making his own decisions. Now the boy seemed to be at an impasse, torn between wanting to leave and live on his own or stay and remain tied to his adoptive family. Sinister couldn't risk the boy leaving his family on his own. He couldn't risk misplacing the boy in the city of New York or have him draw the attention of certain locals in the New York area.

When Sinister's monitors had detected multiple identical power signatures in New Orleans, he arrived to discover the boy had managed to manipulate his powers in a way to transport himself across short periods of time. Sinister had set his sights upon the older, more able twin, only to have him slip through his grasp like so much vapor. That boy was too confident, certainly more than his younger counterpart. Sinister realized his mistake; pursuing the stronger boy when he should have targeted the weaker, less sure twin. Now Sinister had the boy cornered in the empty operating theater of the old hospital. Sinister allowed the boy to see his true appearance; pale skin, dark hair, red eyes.

"No, not a doctor here. But I was present the night of your birth. And I've been waiting some time to meet you...son," Sinister said. The words had the effect of sending a shock through the boy. He seemed physically stunned at the pronouncement.

When the boy didn't respond, Sinister continued: "Fifteen years ago, I came to claim you, only to find that your mother had already given you away. She feared you for your eyes...so like my own."

Remy blinked at him. "You...?" his voice sounded strangled. "How did –? Are you a...a mutant?"

Sinister smiled. "I'm certainly more than human," he told the boy. "But a monster...or a devil? Nothing of the sort."

Remy nodded slowly. He seemed glad to hear this confirmation of his suspicions.

"Imagine my surprise to discover you here, at the very place I'd hoped to find you fifteen years ago. I did not need to look far to find you at last." Sinister reached out and lay a hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. Remy was still nervous, poised to flee. "Tell me son, are you well taken care of? Is there anything you need?"

Remy started to nod his head. He was uncomfortable with the physical contact, but Sinister did not want to let the boy loose.

"And you're not treated badly...The ones who took you – they accept you in spite of your eyes?" Sinister asked. "In spite of what you are?"

The boy's expression clouded over. "That's de _only_ reason they want me," he muttered.

"I hate to think that you are being used," Sinister told Remy. "I can give you whatever you need. I hoped you would allow me the chance to make up for the time we've lost."

Remy swallowed nervously. "I don't –," he began, then his expression became mulish. "How do I know you're telling me de truth?"

Sinister's hand moved to the pocket of his long coat. "I have the papers your mother signed...transferring you to my custody. Your birth certificate." Sinister held the papers out to the boy. "I am your legal guardian. But instead of having you as my own, I found that she had instead sold you away."

Remy took the papers and held them in his shaking hands. "This can't be true," he murmured to himself. "I...I don't believe you."

"I thought you might react this way," Sinister said and placed his other hand on Remy's opposite shoulder. "That to find your father after all this time, you might think it too good to be true."

Remy pushed the papers back into Sinister's chest. "No! This is some trick!"

Sinister tightened his grip on the boy's shoulders. "What reason would I have for tricking you, Grant?"

Remy froze. "That's not – that's not my name! I – I have to go home," he said.

"What home is that?" Sinister asked. "To a family that only wants to use you? Who allow you to dress in rags? What ties do you have to them that can't be broken?"

Remy paled at this and clutched the bag he had at his hip. He began to back out of Sinister's grasp. "I need time to think!" he said, a little frantically.

Sinister tightened his grip and he saw the rising panic in the boy's eyes. He hadn't wanted the situation to escalate in this way. He wanted the boy to come willingly, but he would take him if he had to. He forced the next words from his lips: "Grant... _Please_."

The metal door behind Remy squealed open on unused hinges. A boy stood in the hall, all color leached from him by the cast of yellow light. He was thin and dressed in a hospital gown, his narrow feet bare on the floor tiles.

Sinister felt his grip on Remy falter. He stared at the strange thin child standing in the hall with his overlong mop of pale hair. "Adam...?" was his perplexed inquiry. But it couldn't be...the child looked like the very specter of his deceased son.

Remy was loosed from Sinister's grasp. Sinister tightened his hold at the last moment, seizing upon the thief's wrist.

"You should go," said the phantom from the hall.

Remy gasped and his eyes cast about for a means of escape. Sinister blinked in the sudden wash of bright light. He saw then that the light was shining from Remy. Remy's head turned from side to side, his gaze falling on scenes only he could see. He made a strangled sort of sound.

"Where?" Remy choked.

"Forward," said the boy in the hall.

Sinister turned his head as the light became overwhelming. He felt his hand clamp down on empty air. Remy had vanished, just as his future twin had. There came a slamming sound as the metal door fell shut. Sinister flew forward, yanking the door open with a strength that tore it from its hinges.

" _Who are you?_ " he roared. His voice echoed down the empty hall.

Sinister moved towards the double doors and threw them open. The mysterious pale boy was nowhere to be seen. As Sinister's appearance changed to something more acceptable to the average human's eye, he started up the staircase. At the top he found a man seated on a bench. The man's head was down, his long pale hair falling into his face. His eyes were shaded by a pair of smoke-colored lenses and he steadily wound an old gold pocket watch.

"Did you see a boy come through here?" Sinister demanded. "In a hospital gown?"

The man seemed to regard Sinister for several moments, though with his dark glasses, Sinister couldn't be sure if the man was sighted or not. Finally the man answered in a dry humored voice: "Nobody here but us chickens."

Sinister made a sound of disgust and passed the man to proceed towards the hospital's main hall. He would search the hospital for the pale impostor who looked so much like his dead son. Someone would pay dearly for this trickery.

Behind him, the old man muttered to himself: "All in good time."

* * *

Sois calme, frétillon – Be still, fidget.

*Weapon X First Class #3

Next time: Out of the frying pan...


	17. In Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charity Hospital of New Orleans was closed after Hurricane Katrina. Despite being clean and serviceable, its doors remained shut to the victims and survivors of the hurricane due to blatant sabotage and greed for federal dollars. The hospital remains closed and is on the National Trust for Historic Preservation's list of Most Endangered Places.

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago

Remy revived to find himself in absolute darkness. The side of his face was immersed in a pool of cold water. He drew a breath and choked on the stagnant water. His nose was assaulted with the stink of wet decay. Somewhere, something splashed. Remy raised his head and moved to lift himself from the floor. Broken tiles and glass clinked under his hands. He rose and sank back onto his knees, watching spots dance before his eyes over a backdrop of inky darkness.

_Where am I?_ he wondered. His hand found a piece of broken tile and he charged it. It let off a meager glow. He saw he was surrounded by shards of tile, mouldering chunks of plaster, and fallen fluorescent tube lighting. The walls surrounding him were curved. He realized he was on the floor of the operating theater. A jolt of fear went through him and he had to cast away the glowing shard. It exploded nearby, splashing Remy with rank black water.

Remy stood shakily and felt the pockets of his coat. He found a deck of playing cards and drew them out. Taking the first card from the deck, he charged it and began to carefully make his way forward toward the first tiered riser leading upward. He climbed the first steps to the lowest tier. Something skittered off to his right and he turned. The glow from his charged card reflected red in the eyes of a rat. The rat sniffed the air, then turned and fled, its bare pink feet tapping away into the gloom. Remy proceeded to the second tier, making his way slowly upward. The threat of the pale man was still fresh in his mind, the one who claimed to be his father, but there was no sign of him. There were only the dancing shadows on the walls and the constant dripping of water. At the top tier, Remy turned and looked back down at the pit of darkness he'd just climbed from. With a shudder of apprehension, he turned to leave.

The door to the operating theater wouldn't open at first. Remy pulled harder on the steel door handle, then more frantically. Finally, the door dragged forward, scraping up a swath of mud and grime in its wake. Remy stepped into the hall. It was still dark, but he could see the faint outline of the two square windows set in the swinging doors. Remy paced forward. He peered through one of the windows and saw nothing but more darkness. His ears searched for sound. Another rat scurried down the hall. There came a soft slithery sound, like of something being pulled across the wet tiles. In a fright, Remy pushed forward through the swinging doors. He stumbled up the stairs, catching himself on the steps with one hand and dropping his card. It fizzled into nothing, plunging him once more into darkness. He felt terribly weak having expended the effort just charging the tile and the card. Remy wondered if he hadn't spent all his energy on...bringing himself to this place, wherever or _whenever_ that was. He clambered up to the first floor on his hands and knees. The sound of his own exerted breathing filled his ears. After a few moments, he used the railing to climb to his feet and started towards the main hall.

Remy wondered what had happened to the hospital. Never in his life had he seen it empty, without light, without the hustle of people at work, of patients and nurses and doctors. What had happened here? What kind of crazy hellscape had he transported himself to? He found himself in the main hall. The main doors were before him. The large decorative window above let in a deep blue light. He could see that it was dark outside, but then lightning flashed, momentarily blinding him. Remy walked as fast as he dared to the doors. All around him were sights of decay and destruction. The walls were peppered black with mold. Discarded furnishings lay in broken heaps. Remy came to the doors and pushed. The doors were locked, chained from the outside. A boom of thunder echoed from the sky. Nothing had scared him so much as the sight of Big Charity locked and barred. Beyond the windows in the door, he could see chain link fencing encircling the courtyard which was overgrown with weeds. The wind sent trash blowing across the lawn. Remy threw himself at the doors and the chains rattled.

He was about to attempt to charge another card to blow the door open when he heard the sound of footfalls and a strange sweeping sound of something moving across the wet floor. Remy turned, dreading what he would see next. Lightning flashed and briefly illuminated the hall in blue-white light.

A woman's voice floated down the hall. "Here he is. Just as you predicted," the woman sounded pleasantly surprised, but her tone was dry and mocking.

A second voice spoke, low but female. "Predicted? No, my dear. Prediction had nothing to do with it. As if I would rely on a method so imprecise. This is as I _projected_. A careful calculation of the force exerted, mass, and the rate of –."

"Do me a favor and spare me the details of how clever you believe yourself to be," the woman interrupted. "You prattle on about your schemes like some Bond villain braggart."

In the dim light from the window, Remy could see two figures approaching. One was no taller than Remy himself. It was a teenage girl. The light caught on her yellow hair. From behind the wisps of her bangs, he could see a diamond on her forehead glowing with a dull red light. The girl stood behind the second figure. The other woman was seated in a wheelchair, her body canted to the side. It was clear that half her body was useless. Her skin was deathly pale, her hair black, her smile contemptuously cruel. Both figures had glowing red eyes. Remy felt his knees buckle and he fell back against the doors to slide to the ground.

The teenage girl remarked: "The boy is in no condition to flee. Likely he is weakened and disoriented."

"Terrified, more like," responded the wheelchair-bound woman.

The girl smiled grimly. "As he should be. Fear would serve him well."

~ oOo ~

Somewhere Else

The Past, Seven Weeks Ago

He didn't know where he was now, or why he was here. He had no idea what time it was, what day it was. It was still dark, but he didn't know if it was because the room was dark, or because of the blindfold pressing his eyelids closed. Remy was bound and gagged and sitting upright on a cold concrete floor, his legs folded beneath him. The room smelled damp and mildewy, but nothing so bad as the rot of the destroyed hospital. The wall behind his bound hands was rough cinderblock. His bindings, which seemed to be some kind of plastic that cut into his wrists, had been affixed to a bolt in the wall.

From somewhere to his right, he heard the sound of someone descending a creaking wooden staircase. The steps were light. It was the girl. She moved to stand before him. Remy could feel her eyes upon him. After a few moments, she pulled the gag from his mouth. Remy took the opportunity to open and close his aching jaw.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Drink," said the girl and she put a straw to his mouth. Remy obeyed because he didn't know when his next chance for water would be. She eventually pulled the straw away. Remy swallowed and tried to control his breathing.

"What do you want from me?" Remy asked again.

"I have a task for you," the girl replied. "An assignment."

"You t'ink kidnapping me is gonna get you what you want? You crazy, girl," Remy snapped. "You want me t'work for you, you go through de right channels. I don't –."

He was cut off by the sharp slap that stung his face. The girl was a lot stronger than she appeared. That didn't matter to Remy. He wasn't above fighting girls. He and Belle had disagreements that ended in the exchange of physical blows before. She usually started it. His biggest mistake had been to hesitate or relent when she fell into tears. She always got the upper hand then, Remy had the scars to prove it. Remy wouldn't hesitate to knock this girl flat on her ass given half the chance.

"Listen carefully," the girl told him, and she lowered herself to where Remy sat on the concrete so her face was inches from his. "You are at my mercy. You live under my sufferance. I am the one who controls you, who has command over your powers." She stood over him again, rising to her full height. Remy wondered how her presence could fill an entire room, as she was so slight and young. Her words resonated in his skull, as if she'd spoken them right into his mind.

"Who are you?" Remy asked, shrinking back from her.

There was a smile in her voice when she spoke. "You may call me...Alice."

"Where am I?"

"Don't you know?" she asked, amused. "You are the one who brought yourself here."

Remy had a vague sense that he'd transported himself to the future, but how far, he didn't know. When the pale man had grabbed him, he had panicked. Remy had seen a thousand possibilities stretching out before him on bright ribbons of light. Few of the ribbons seemed to show the promise of survival. Fewer still showed him a possibility of freedom and escape from the pale man. Only one hinted at a hope of finding his way home again. That was the straw he had grasped for. Where it took him, he had little idea.

"Did you see that ruin that once was a hospital, Remy?" Alice asked tauntingly. "Destroyed by a hurricane. No one came to aid that fetid swamp you call a home. No one cared if the entire city and its backwater inhabitants were swept away. But _I_ came for you. You have _no one_ _else_."

Remy shook his head in disbelief. " _Non, c'est pas vrai_ ," he whispered to himself.

Alice continued: "The hospital is just a small glimpse of the devastation. New Orleans is home to you no more."

All at once, Remy charged at the girl, but she stepped out of reach as his bindings drew him short. He fell to the floor. " _Putain_ ," he cursed.

"Such language," the girl admonished. There came a strange slithery sound, like of a snake shedding its skin, or a cicada pulling free of its shell. The presence standing before him had changed somehow. Remy scrambled backward until his back met the wall.

A second set of footsteps could be heard coming down the staircase. Remy struggled upright. The tread of steps was heavy and slow. They came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. For a moment no one spoke. Remy imagined the girl and the new arrival looking at one another.

"Were you delayed?" asked a low hollow voice. Remy felt chilled. He had heard that voice not so long ago. From the strange pale man. Remy turned his head toward the new arrival.

"No," the arrival answered. This voice was different, one Remy hadn't heard before. Remy cast about his senses trying to find where the pale man's voice was coming from. It seemed to be coming from Alice.

"I expect you to respond with more immediacy when I summon you," the pale man said.

"I expect you're gonna be disappointed then. What's with the kid?"

Though the voice was casual and he spoke with a defeated air, Remy sensed a possible ally in the newcomer. "Hey!" he called out. "Help! Please, dis girl –."

Remy was seized by the throat, cold strong hands gripped his jaw. The gag was forced back into his mouth despite his shouts of protest.

"What the hell?" the man at the base of the stairs said, his voice tired. He seemed to have no intention of helping. He only sighed in defeat. "Is that –?"

"It is not your concern," the pale man said.

"What are you going to do with him?" the visitor persisted.

"You've become so inquisitive," the pale man informed him. "So a clone has grown a conscious...? The duplicate has become such a departure from the original."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," the visitor replied dryly.

"Your impertinence is a detriment to your character...as well as your continued existence."

The man said nothing.

"The boy is going to provide a pair of eyes," the man continued and Remy felt the pale man's hand come to rest upon his head. Remy recoiled. "I don't mean that in a literal sense," the man said with dark amusement, turning his attention to the boy he had bound at his feet. "I only seek to borrow your perspective, young man."

"And what's this to do with me?" the other man asked.

"I am in the process of tying up loose ends. I require your services. Nothing that should be beyond your ability," the pale man said to the visitor.

"If you're looking for a short-order cook, I'm your man," the visitor said.

"That is not what I had in mind. I am charging you with the responsibility of killing LeBeau," the pale man told him.

Remy twisted away from the pale man and accidentally struck his head against the wall. The pale man laughed a hollow chuckle. "Not _you_ , my young man."

"LeBeau?" the visitor repeated. "And why would I do that?"

"It is not your place to question me," the pale man told him. "But to obey. And it is not the LeBeau _you_ know I wish you to destroy, but a copy. I am sure you can agree, one Remy LeBeau is more than enough."

"You cloned the Cajun?" the man asked. His tone conveyed he was not impressed.

"Not I. But my impostor. And I will not have the impostor's strays unleashed upon the world. This one in particular is making a nuisance of itself."

"How'm I supposed to tell the clone LeBeau from the real one?" the man asked.

"The differences are quite apparent. An idiot could tell them apart," the pale man responded. "Kill it, and I will free you."

The other man considered this. "You'll be done with me then?"

The pale man seemed to give his confirmation, though Remy could not see it. "Move the grate," the pale man commanded.

The visitor strode forward and there was a sound of metal dragging across concrete. The pale man loomed over Remy and he felt his bonds freed from the wall. The pale man dragged Remy forward. Remy's legs scrambled to find purchase on the smooth floor. He found himself held over an empty space. He shouted against the gag in his mouth. He felt a chill wind blowing up through the empty space beneath him. Then he was dropped into the void. After a short fall, he collapsed in a heap into a pool of muck. Remy rolled over onto his back to face upward. The grate was dragged back into place with a final clank.

~ oOo ~

Remy could hear distant voices filtering through the grate from the floors above.

"You intend on killing him?" asked the woman's voice, the one who had been in the wheelchair.

"I promised to free him. Once he has completed the job," answered Alice. "He will no longer be of use to me afterwards. Such a terrible thing, a purposeless existence. Death will be a mercy."

"Such compassion," the woman said with sarcasm. "I think the longer you remain female, the more sentimental you become."

"Be silent, Ms. Renko. You try my patience."

"Would that you were so merciful to me," Renko told Alice. "And spare me from having to listen to you talk."

"There is still some use to you yet," Alice replied.

"Compassionate _and_ generous," Renko mused. "What about the boy?"

"A few days will give him time to appreciate the gravity of his current situation."

"Days? You've made me a prisoner of my own body. I've waited long enough, trapped in this chair. Send him _now_ ," Renko said.

"The boy is not prepared yet. He is still given to believe in the illusion of his independence. You will have your new body, my dear...and I, a more suitable replacement. But most importantly, I will see that pompous charlatan wearing my face destroyed."

* * *

Don't know who Alice and Renko are? Check out X-23 #5-6.

_Non, c'est pas vrai_ – No, it's not true.

_Putain_ \- bitch/whore (Now you know a great new curse word. Use it on your friends!)

Notes: Charity Hospital of New Orleans was closed after Hurricane Katrina. Despite being clean and serviceable, its doors remained shut to the victims and survivors of the hurricane due to blatant sabotage and greed for federal dollars. The hospital remains closed and is on the National Trust for Historic Preservation's list of Most Endangered Places.

Next time: More fun at Stark Tower.


	18. Free Time

**Stark Tower, New York City, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Rogue walked into the conference room to interrupt a conversation. Tony Stark was there, as was Matt Murdock. Steve Rogers stood stoically observing the exchange. Tony appeared irritated, even as he nodded a greeting in Rogue's direction. He was half-reclined in a chair, arms crossed over his chest and looking up at Matt. Matt turned slightly when Rogue entered and pressed his mouth into a vague smile. Matt was dressed professionally in a suit and tie, apparently having just come from work. Unfortunately for him, his slacks and his suit jacket didn't match.

"It wouldn't be for very long," Matt said as he turned back to Tony. "Until Saturday, at the most."

"Do you think I'm running a witness protection program here?" Tony asked.

"The man came to me for help. If he felt he could rely on the authorities for protection, he would have gone there," Matt continued. "His life is in danger. I thought this seemed a safe enough place for him to lie low."

"Safe _enough_?" Tony remarked, his eyebrow raising.

"What's goin' on?" Rogue asked.

"Mr. Murdock here wants us to offer a refuge to a felon, a gang member," Tony said dryly. "One of his prestigious new clients."

" _Ex_ -gang member," Matt responded. "It's very important that he stay alive. He has information, he knows something that could topple an international terrorist money-laundering ring."

"How many terrorist organizations are you going to piss off this time?" Tony asked Matt conversationally.

Matt seemed to consider this for a moment. "Specifically...? The New Ju _á_ rez Cartel. And in general...? Like, a lot of other people. But if you could take care of my witness until I clean up this little problem with the local faction of the Ju _á_ rez gang..."

"I imagined you would get tired of being shot at by common street thugs," Steve said.

"I'm a lot more comfortable with gang-bangers than people possessed by an immortal flaming bird from space," Matt commented wryly.

"When you say it like that, it just sounds ridiculous," Rogue said.

"Why was your client imprisoned?" Steve asked.

"A handful of drug-related crimes," Matt admitted. After an awkward pause he added: "And sexual assault."

Steve glanced over at Rogue. "I'm not sure –," he began.

"He paid his debt to society and he's turned over a new leaf," Matt said, and angled himself to face Rogue. "Earned a degree on the inside, found religion."

"Ah'm sure there are other alternatives," Rogue said stiffly. "Other places your client could stay."

"Sorry, Matt," Tony said.

Matt's mouth was an impatient line as he picked up his briefcase from the conference table. "I don't have the convenience to pick and choose my clients. They pick me because they don't have anyone else to turn to."

"A ringing endorsement of your skills if ever I heard one," Tony said.

"You know, there are plenty of regular people with regular problems who need help. It's not all alien hordes and planet-eating giants and super-powered maniacs bent on global domination," Matt said and turned to leave. Before he exited, he turned slightly and said over his shoulder: "And speaking of regular problems, next time you get sued, find a different lawyer."

"We have you on retainer...!" Tony called after Matt. He shook his head impatiently, then abruptly turned and pointed at Rogue: "So speaking of _felons..._ I need to have a word with your boyfriend. Gambit."

Rogue felt a flash of irritation. "Ah don't _have_ a boyfriend," she said testily.

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever. I can't keep track of who's dating who in the X-Family."

Rogue put her hands on her hips. "Ah'll draw you up a diagram," she snapped. "What do you want Gambit for?"

"You mean other than the fact that he hacked into my security system, downloaded a virus to my laptop, ate all of Thor's crackers...which he won't stop whining about, by the way...Gambit also _borrowed_ ," he made air quotes with the index and middle fingers of both hands, "a prototype of my design, drank my alcohol, hit on my girlfriend, and _then_ tried to free Cyclops from his holding cell!"

"He did?" Rogue asked, perplexed. "When did he have time t'do all that?"

"He must have excellent time management skills," Tony continued. "Because that was _just the first day_. It's what he did afterwards that I have a problem with."

"What was that?" Rogue said, somewhat dreading the answer.

"Gambit stole a large quantity of information S.H.I.E.L.D. appropriated from a government project called Black Womb," Steve answered.

"Wha – _why_?" Rogue asked.

"I have an inkling," Tony told her. "Does the name 'Moreau' mean anything to you?"

"As in: ' _Island of Doctor_ '?" Rogue suggested, and when Tony shook his head she said: "No...Should it?"

Tony and Steve glanced at one another. "The strange thing is," Tony started, "is that when I set up Gambit's security profile and put his DNA identification into the system...well, his genetic code was already in our database. Under the name 'Moreau.'"

"An alias?" Rogue suggested.

"The source came from the Black Womb files," Steve said. "Which go back over fifty years. The most recent, about thirty."

Rogue felt a stirrings of nervousness in her gut. "So...what does that mean? You have thirty-year old DNA that matches Gambit's? He would've been just a...Ah don't know. A baby then?"

Tony nodded and pushed his chair back so that he reclined even further. "So your not-boyfriend, for whatever reason, came and helped himself to some secure intel. Now if he had a personal reason to do so, fine."

"But that doesn't excuse the fact that people who are supposed to be our allies are stealing from our facility," Steve said. "I hope you can act as an intermediary. Talk to him. Have him return the data. No questions asked."

Rogue shook her head. "Ah –," she began. "Ah'm not...we're not..."

Tony rolled his eyes in Steve's direction. Rogue felt her face color. "Ah haven't seen him since Tuesday last," she said.

Tony sat forward. "What, did you have him here for a sleepover?"

Furious, Rogue shook her head, her hair whipped over her shoulder. "Ah picked him up at Central Park and took him...someplace. He was never here."

"Not according to my security logs," Tony challenged.

"Well, your logs are wrong," Rogue retorted. "He was drunk as a skunk and bleeding from his face. Not in any condition to be skulking about Stark Tower."

Steve held his hands out, palms up. "Rogue, we don't care if you and Gambit are –."

"Ah'm not lyin' to y'all," Rogue announced. "Ah'm tellin' you there's something the matter with your security. Maybe you should concern yourself with _that!_ "

"There's nothing wrong with my security," Tony interjected.

"Oh, yeah? Then how's come your laptop's got a virus on it? Why's there a cat on your desktop background?" She pointed at the oversized monitor behind Tony Stark's head. "You can't even password protect your own computer!"

"When you make me up that relationship diagram, Rogue, could you label which members of your team are criminals? Thanks, that'll come in handy," Tony said with sarcasm.

Steve once again raised his hands. "All right, that's enough."

On the monitor, Wolverine's face replaced the image of the cat wearing the lime as a hat. "Stark," he said over the video relay.

Tony turned his chair to face the monitor. "What is it, Logan?"

"I need to talk to Rogue. Sam too, if he's there," Wolverine answered.

Rogue stepped forward so she could be seen on camera. "Ah'm here," she said. "What's up?"

Wolverine's eyes flicked to Steve then back to Rogue. "I need you back at the school."

"Is there a problem, Wolverine?" Steve asked.

Wolverine seemed to consider his answer for a moment. "Yeah," was his unsatisfactory response.

Steve seemed to be running out of patience with his reticent recruits. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"It's none of your business, bub. This is a family matter," Wolverine growled.

Tony interrupted: "That's the team spirit."

"Logan, what is it?" Rogue asked. "Did something happen to one of the students?"

"No," Wolverine said. "Not a student. But something came up. Or I should say some _one_. Sinister."

Rogue stiffened. "Ah'm on mah way," Rogue said, and turned to leave. Steve grasped her by the upper arm.

"Wolverine, I'm going to insist. If there's an issue, we can help you handle it. I'll assemble a team. What is the nature of this mission?" Steve asked.

Wolverine held up a gray slip of paper, torn along one edge and folded in the middle. A note had been written out with a fountain pen. "Search and rescue," Wolverine said.

* * *

Next time: Cat fights, sex, monsters, explosions, all that and a bowl of soup.


	19. Running Time

**Sinister's London, Undiscovered Location**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Five was in her bed, the covers wrapped tightly around her, wishing to not have to relive the events of the day. She had known it would only be a matter of time before she would be summoned to the physician. Today had been that day. She felt a wave of nausea pass over her as she thought of his cold hands on her, examining her. Would that she could will herself into oblivion during that time, return to her vapid, mindless existence. When he had finished with the examination, the physician had ordered rest and a follow-up appointment scheduled for the day after next. Five had run out of time.

Poppet was still missing, having been sent on her fool's errand. Five feared for him. She felt responsible for the clone. At the very least he was safe from Sinister Prime's attentions. His Majesty had been looking for his missing pet. He was in a foul temper.

Five heard the clock chime the fourth hour. In two more hours, it would be dawn. She wished the day to never come. She wondered why she had left her sanctuary, the heat of the white room where she'd existed before coming here. She thought she would be safe; that the Phoenix Force had been dispersed across the universe. For some reason, she had believed she'd been called back to Earth. And she had been lonely. But when she awoke, it was to find herself in this body, in this nightmare. Five burrowed deeper into the blankets.

There was a soft, even tapping sound. At first, Five thought it was the ticking of the clock. Then the sound stopped and started up again double time. Five raised her head. Poppet was in the window. She could see his dark form and glowing red eyes. She tossed back the covers and dashed to the window. When she pushed the window open, Poppet slipped inside the room. He brought chill and damp with him.

" _B-bon ma-matin, ma chère_ ," he told her. His teeth chattered.

"Poppet," she breathed. She wrapped her arms around him briefly. He was cold and wet. "You're freezing!" Five drew back and took his hands in her own. She chaffed his chilled fingers between her palms.

"It was snowing," he told her and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Don't do that," she told him and handed him a handkerchief from her nightstand. "Come by the fire."

Poppet followed her to the fireplace and she poked at the smoldering log there until the fire stirred itself. She turned her attention back to the clone. "Here, take off your coat. It's soaked through." She began to undress him, but he stopped her. He reached into his coat and withdrew something from the pocket. He presented her with a crushed purple crocus.

"Where have you been?" she asked him and took the flower. She twirled it slowly by its broken stem. "I was worried."

"Your note," he said. "I tried t'deliver it."

"Did you?" she asked hopefully. Five set the flower on her vanity, then returned to Poppet. She pulled off his wet coat and unbuttoned his shirt. She draped the garments over the back of her chair to dry. When she stood before him again, she rubbed her hands up and down his bare arms.

"De letters on de note didn't match," he told her and shook his head. "It was de wrong sign. It didn't say: Ex-ay-vee-eye-ee-are."

Five's heart rose all at once and then fell. She felt tears prick her eyes. "The Xavier School is gone?" she said quietly.

"I'm sorry, _ma chère_ ," he told her.

She shook her head sadly. "It's okay, Poppet. _I'm_ sorry," she said. He was still shaking with cold. "I shouldn't have sent you." She took his hand and guided him to the bed, then lifted the covers. "Here, lie down. It's warm."

He sat on the edge of her bed and pulled off his boots. When he climbed into the bed, she followed. Five pulled the blankets over them both and wrapped her arms around him. He convulsed with shivering. She whispered to him: "If you get sick, I'll never forgive myself."

"I feel warmer now," he said, though he still shivered. His breath stirred her hair.

They lay there silently for several moments until he wasn't shaking as badly. Five felt that she had run out of options. She hated having her choices taken away from her. It was an all too familiar experience. Soon, the physician would come for her. There would be an examination room and hospital gown, a sheet-draped bed and stirrups. Five pressed her face against Poppet's shoulder. His hand cupped the side of her face.

"Don't cry, _ma chère_ ," he said quietly.

Five thought that she might have a choice after all. Not a very good one, but better than no choice at all. Five took Poppet's hand and pressed her mouth to his palm. She unlaced the front of her nightgown with her opposite hand. She put his hand inside her nightgown. His hand was still cold. Her skin pebbled with gooseflesh. When she kissed his mouth, he inhaled sharply and moved towards her. She let him pull her nightgown up to her waist. Her hands moved to the front of his trousers. Their kissing intensified. Five opened her mouth slightly, creating a tighter seal of their lips. When his hands became more adventurous, she took his wrists in either hand. She moved over him, straddling his hips. He looked up at her. From the pale light through the window, she could see his expression was playful, mischievous. She released his wrists and he sat up to wrap his arms about her waist. He kissed her throat. She put her fingers through his hair, mussing it. Five lowered herself onto him and he made a low, hungry sound. She was surprised to feel a spike of pleasure flash through her. She wondered that anything should feel so good. His thoughtful touch replaced the cold clinical feel of the physician's hands. His impassioned embrace, the feeling of warmth radiating from where they joined together, chased away the sensation of violation.

Five lay over him and closed her eyes. Poppet put his arms around her, his hands resting at the base of her spine. They lay that way until their breathing calmed.

"I'm not cold at all now," Poppet said.

"Shh," Five hushed him and put her hand over his mouth.

"That was fun," he mumbled against her fingers. "Again?"

She lifted herself slightly to look at his face. "Please," she said.

Later, she said: "Thank you."

~ oOo ~

Five was in the shade garden sitting on the edge of the fountain. She had her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees. There were a few chickens pecking around the mossy cobblestones. Every once in awhile, Five would toss out a handful of cracked corn and the chickens would rush about in a flurry of clucking. Poppet was standing near the fountain with a sharp stick in his hand poking the green sludge in the stagnant water.

"Are there any more eggs, Poppet?" Five asked.

"Hens won't lay if there's not enough light," Poppet responded, lifting his stick. There was a blob of green goop stuck on the end of it. He examined it carefully.

"How do you know so much about chickens?" she asked with mild amusement.

His nearsighted gaze on the green sludge transferred to Five. He blinked at her and his expression grew confused. "I don't know," he said, somewhat mystified.

"Don't think about it," she told him. She worried about triggering a memory that would upset him. He returned to stirring the muck in the fountain with his stick.

"Where does the light come from?" Five asked, casting her eyes upward. The faint bluish light seemed to flicker and fade at times, intensify at others.

"De rocks," Poppet answered absently. "They glow. It hurts my eyes."

"Glowing rocks?" she asked.

Poppet paused and rested his stick against the side of the fountain. He fished in the pocket of his coat and withdrew a bright stone that glimmered in the dim light. Five reached out her hand for it and he placed it in her palm. The light from the strange stone left spots in her vision, like the light from a flashbulb. It rolled around on the bowl of her palm. "How pretty," she said. "There's more of these?"

"A lot," Poppet told her and picked up his stick. He climbed to stand on the ledge of the fountain.

Five put the rock down the front of her blouse. She watched Poppet stalk along the edge of the fountain. He paused and stabbed downward with the stick. When he raised it, there was a strange creature speared on the end of it. Its six limbs and long slimy body flailed in its death throes. A hideous mouth with several rows of teeth opened and closed.

Five recoiled. "What is _that_?" she asked. The chickens scattered.

Poppet stared at it, then stuck his index finger in the thing's mouth to quickly withdraw it before the creature could bite him. "Baby monster," he said, twirling the creature on the end of the stick.

"Ugh, it's hideous. What do you mean it's a baby?" Five asked.

"Dis is just a small one." He glanced up at her and grinned. "I have an idea," he said.

"Uh, oh."

"Follow me," he told her. Poppet hopped down from the fountain and slipped down the alley leading to the stable. Five trailed after him. She followed him through the stable and across the courtyard. They both ducked under the kitchen window. Poppet raised his head to peer over the window ledge and into the kitchen.

"What are you thinking, Poppet?" Five whispered to him.

His eyes flashed. "You tell me," he said with devilry in his voice.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded to herself. She rose and moved to the doorway to the kitchen. Five threw open the door.

The cook startled and looked over at her. "Lady...uhm...?" he began. "What are you doing down here?"

"His Majesty commanded a daily constitutional," she said imperially. "For our health. We require a second helping of dinner."

"Y-yes, at once. Lady...Two...?" he guessed and began to bustle about the kitchen. He placed a bowl onto the countertop and ladled watery gruel into it. Five watched the cook, staring contemptuously down her nose at him. When he presented her with the bowl she sneered.

"You don't expect me to eat this _down here_ , do you?" Five asked, aghast. "Like a servant?"

"N-no, my lady!" the cook stammered.

"Bring it to the dining hall, you dunderhead!" Five shouted and pointed upwards.

The cook placed the bowl and spoon onto a tray and hustled from the kitchen. Five slowly walked after him. She left the kitchen, but not before seeing the quivering baby monster appear like a grotesque stick-puppet from behind the counter. Poppet moved unseen towards the stove, the stick held aloft. For a moment, the creature was held poised over the bubbling pot on the stovetop. The next moment, it had vanished into the soup with a plop.

Five was later seated at the dining table. The others slowly gathered for the midday meal. Five's three sisters entered like a line of ducklings. One looked at Five with irritation. Five stared back a challenge and crunched into a bite of toast. The butler appeared and Sinister Prime not long after. He took his seat at the head of the table.

"Are we well today, ladies?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty," One, Two, and Three answered politely.

"Jolly good," Five muttered in a thickly-laid on accent.

Sinister Prime glanced over at her. "I beg your pardon?" he asked and set his napkin across his lap.

"Hm?" Five turned to him as if she hadn't heard.

A bowl of soup was placed before Sinister Prime. He took up his spoon and while he stared at Five, he moved to eat the soup. Five nibbled on her toast and fixed her gaze across the room, staring blankly into space. The spoon made it to Sinister's mouth. A moment later, he made a sort of strangled noise and then choked. Five attempted a neutral expression.

"Is everything all right, Your Majesty?" One asked.

Sinister fished about the soup bowl with his spoon. When he raised it again, there was a strange jawbone with many jagged teeth hanging off the end of the spoon. He stared at it, then wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"I would like a word with the cook," Sinister Prime said and rose from his chair. He departed from the dining hall.

That afternoon, when Five went looking for Poppet, she found him in the kitchen. He was sitting cross-legged on the countertop with a bowl in his lap. He was stirring the bowl's contents with a whisk. The cook was nowhere to be seen. The handsome rooster was sitting above on the pot rack. It turned its head to look at Five as she entered. Poppet looked up as well.

He smiled at her. "I hope you like your food spicy," he told her.

~ oOo ~

Five left her window open so Poppet could come in and out whenever he liked. He returned to her room that night. He climbed into her bed and curled around her. She pulled his arms close and brushed her lips back and forth across his knuckles. He was silent for so long, she thought he had fallen asleep. Five closed her eyes.

"I love you," Poppet announced.

Five smiled a bit and shook her head against the pillow. "No, you don't, sweetheart," she told him. "You just like sex."

"No," he told her. "I love sex."

She breathed out a laugh and turned in his arms to look at him. The blue-white glow from the stone on her nightstand illuminated the room. She could see a dark bruise coloring the side of his face. Five made a sound and touched his cheek.

"Poppet, what happened?"

"Two was mad at me," he told her.

Five felt a flash of hot anger. "That little –," she began. "I'll snatch her head bald."

Poppet brushed her hair back from her face. " _Rouquine ardent_ ," he murmured. "So angry."

"Damn right, I'm angry," Five told him.

He regarded her silently for several moments. "I was angry...before. I don't like to remember."

"You don't have to, Poppet," she told him. Five felt something other than anger. She felt resolve. Now there seemed to be a reason to persevere, other than self-interest. She whispered to him: "We'll get out of this."

" _Oui, ma chère_ ," Poppet said.

Five moved forward and kissed him gently. "You're very agreeable."

He nodded and his hands moved down her sides. "I have another idea."

"I'm sure you do."

Poppet shared his idea with her. Five was able to sleep afterwards, and the thought of what the next day would bring was pushed to the back of her mind. When she woke again, it was to the chiming of the grandfather clock. She counted the bell tolls. Her eyes fluttered closed at the fourth chime, but flashed back open at the fifth. With the sixth, she sat upright. Then came the seventh. Her heart leapt.

"Poppet," she hissed and shook him awake.

Poppet murmured and tried to pull her close.

"No, Poppet. Get up," Five said. "It's seven o'clock!"

Poppet yawned widely, seeming not to care. Five had to climb over him to get out of the bed. She hurriedly began pulling on her clothing. "Poppet!"

Poppet sat up as she hopped around on one foot, trying to pull up a stocking. He reached out and seized her around her waist and pulled her into his lap. Five pulled free and shook her finger in his face. "Naughty!"

He laughed at her. She tossed his trousers into his lap and said: "Put your pants on!"

Still smiling, he stood and obeyed. " _Oui, ma chère_ ," he said and his eyes were playful. He stooped and picked up her other stocking.

"We're going to be in so much trouble," Five said and tried to pull the stocking from his hand. He refused to release it. He pulled it from her grip and held it over her head. She jumped for it and grasped the end. He turned and she leapt upon his back. Poppet laughed and tossed her onto the bed. She let out a yelp of surprise. He tied her stocking around his neck like a tie.

"You are ridiculous," she told him. But she couldn't decide if she was mad at him or not.

He went to her wardrobe and looked at the clothes inside. He picked out a purple dress and turned to show it to her.

"That one?" she asked and climbed out of bed. "Okay. But I can't put it on by myself. You'll have to help me."

She raised her arms and he dropped the dress over her head. While she adjusted the top Poppet went to the vanity and picked up the purple flower there. He returned to tuck it in her tousled hair.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked.

"I have an idea–," he began and she put her hand over his mouth.

"Shh," she told him and kissed him.

The bedroom door was thrown open. Five whirled to see Two standing in the doorway, a vindictive grin on her face.

"You're dead," Two said.

While Five stood paralyzed in momentary shock, Poppet flew forward to pin Two against the wall. Somehow the scissors from the vanity had materialized in his hand. Two looked stunned as the blades of the scissors were pressed into her throat.

"Poppet, no!" Five said, surprised at his sudden viscousness.

Poppet lost the advantage of catching Two unawares, and she threw him across the room with her telekinesis. He crashed into her vanity, shattering the mirror there. Five turned on her sister and for a moment, they were both trapped in a battle of wills. Neither proved stronger than the other and finally Five dashed forward. Making good on her declaration from the night previous, she seized her twin's hair and shoved her against the wall. Two's nails raked down Five's throat. With a cry, Five thrust her sister from her against the open door. The pair fell into a tangle of arms and stumbled through the doorway and into the hall.

Two stumbled backwards and Five fell against her, slamming them both against the wall. With a snarl of frustration, Two shoved Five back. Five hit the doorjamb and rebounded. Seeing her opportunity, Two seized Five by the back of her hair and sent her stumbling down the hall. Five caught herself against the wall and Two was upon her in a second. Five drove her elbow back into Two's side and she grunted in pain. Turning, Five shoved Two towards the railing overlooking the main hall. The other woman stepped back into her gown, tripping herself. Five lunged and pinned Two against the railing. Two cried out as Five bent her back over the railing, Five's hands clutching her twin by the throat. Two seized the front of Five's dress as she began to fall backwards. The fabric tore, and Five felt herself falling forward. She let out a sharp cry.

Poppet suddenly appeared to grasp Five around her waist and pull her back. Two struggled to right herself, clinging fast to the railing. Her face was flushed with anger. Before she could pull herself forward, Five used her telekinesis to give her twin one last shove. For an instant, Two's face was a mask of surprise. Just then, there came the blast of an explosion. Both Five and Poppet were thrown down the hall by the force of the blast. Five's elbow went through the glass panel in the grandfather clock, slashing in the inside of her arm. The skylight above the main hall shattered; the chandelier held in the center swung and toppled. There was the sound of Two's shriek and then the crash of shattering glass and crystal. Several more explosions made the building shudder as the gas lamps along the hall burst, igniting the carpeting and walls. The world was lost in a haze of dust and smoke. Five struggled to her hands and knees, coughing as bits of wood and plaster fell around her like hailstones.

For several dizzying moments, she saw a great blaze of white energy engulf her like the flash of an atomic bomb. She briefly glimpsed the sight of the glittering chandelier plummeting downwards. When she blinked, the image sank like a stone into the depths of her mind. Five realized she was seeing the last living moments of her sister Two. She was dead, but not gone. She was now a part of Five.

"Poppet," Five called weakly and coughed. The hallway behind them was a conflagration, the flames glowing orange through the haze of smoke and dust. There was a stirring and Poppet crawled forward. His hair was full of soot and debris. Five clutched her arm where blood was running freely. Her ears were ringing from the sound of the blast.

"Poppet! What happened?" she shouted.

Poppet grasped her arm, looking at the cut there. He looked up into her face. There were flakes of ash in his eyelashes and a dark smear of soot on his upper lip.

Five imagined she must look just as bad. "What was that?" she asked. "What was that explosion?"

"An emergency," he answered.

"Now we run?" she asked.

Poppet nodded. "Now we run."

* * *

Next time: Meanwhile, back at the bank...


	20. Good Intentions

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Gambit was waiting in the freight elevator hanging suspended from the steel cage that served as the car ceiling. When Jesus trundled the pallet jack with the remainder of the servers into the car, Gambit dropped onto the janitor from above. The man's cry of surprise was muffled as Gambit wrapped his arm over Jesus' mouth. A punch to the kidneys collapsed the janitor's legs. Spinning the man around, Gambit seized Jesus by the front of his gray overalls and slammed him into the elevator wall, causing the steel wall to buckle. Gambit's forearm pressed into the janitor's throat, his other hand reached out and tore the front of Jesus' overalls, exposing his neck and a portion of his upper chest. Tattoos in black ink covered the majority of the janitor's skin below the collar.

With his face very close to the janitor's, Gambit whispered: "Dat's an awful lotta ink for a family man, _Jesus_. Makes me wonder what kinda family you must've been brung up in."

Jesus' eyes were wide and his head shook from side to side, though his mobility was limited. " _Por favor_ –!" he choked. "N-no!"

Gambit pointed to a tattoo that spanned across the man's left pectoral. "From de looks of dis one, I'd say de Juárez... _family_. Y'can grunt if I'm right." Gambit pulled Jesus forward just as he brought his knee up into the man's gut. Jesus collapsed onto the floor, clutching his abdomen.

Jesus gasped and fell onto his knees, his body hunched over his injury. " _No comprende_ –!"

Gambit seized Jesus by his overlong hair and yanked his head back. "You can cut de lingo, _esse_. _No hablo_ your bullsh– _crap_."

Jesus continued to shake his head from side to side, his eyes screwed up tight. "No – no, _you_ don't understand –," he began.

Gambit drew Jesus forward and hissed in his ear. "You're right. I don't. I don't get why it is that I fall f'r every sob story that I hear. Mebbe I'm just a sap? Mebbe I have de word 'sucker' written across my forehead? You'da thought I'd learnt by now." Gambit tossed Jesus across the car, sending him toppling over the servers on the pallet jack.

Jesus fell onto his back, his face an expression of misery. His hands were raised in surrender, but slowly he processed Gambit's words and lowered his arms. He looked at Gambit, recognition dawning on him. "R-robert?" he stuttered, his face written over with shock.

The staff strapped to Gambit's thigh was in two pieces. He loosed it from its holster, snapped the two pieces together in one smooth motion and telescoped the staff to its full length. He pressed one end of it against the janitor's chest. "Guess neither of us is what we seemed, enh, _amigo_? Your buddies wit' de heavy artillery up at de loading dock gonna be waitin'. Why don't we go up an' meet 'em?"

Jesus raised his hands again, beseechingly. "Please, no. Listen to me, Robert. I – I didn't have a choice! They'll _kill_ me! They'll kill my – my family!"

"Sure. Right, one big happy family," Gambit said dryly. He turned and reached to the freight elevator controls. "Forgive my lack of faith in you. But there's five gang-bangers up there sportin' de same bad taste in body art as you. Allow me t'return their wayward son."

Jesus grabbed the end of Gambit's staff. "I'm telling you the truth, I swear! You think it's so easy to get out – to get out of the life? You don't even know –."

"I know more'n you think," Gambit turned on him and shoved the staff into Jesus' chest a little harder. Gambit's face was still masked, his eyes shaded, but Jesus shrank back at the level of hostility in the thief's voice.

"I didn't know what else to do! I did what I could. I sent – I sent those letters I found in the recycling. The ones meant for the shredder. I tried to let someone, _anyone_ , know what was going on! _But no one came_!" Jesus' voice had raised an octave in his panic. "I tried, I swear! If they find out I'm a rat, I'll be dead!"

Gambit hesitated, his hand over the lever that would close the freight elevator's doors. Jesus seemed to be openly crying now. "They'll kill her. They'll kill my kid. They'll take her head off like they do the others."

Gambit relented his pressure on the staff.

Jesus continued: "I went to county lockup. I got sober – honest. What I did...what I did was unforgivable. I made a terrible mistake. I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."

Gambit stared at the man as Jesus held the rising welt on his chest where the staff had pressed against his heart. Jesus was sitting on the floor, his legs sprawled out before him and his head lowered. He breathed heavily. Gambit wondered that anyone would be able to fake that kind of misery. Gambit let out the breath he'd been holding. "You sent de memo...?" he asked finally. "De one about de money laundering?"

Jesus dared to raise his head. "Y–yes...? You know about it?"

Gambit lowered his arms to his sides. He nodded once. "Someone got your message. Someone did come. Me."

Jesus rubbed a shaking hand across his damp face. "It's too late," he said miserably. "They're here for the data. They're using me to get it, to prove myself. And I'll never get out of the life. Too late..."

Gambit crossed over to the janitor and pulled him up by the arm. "Better late than never," Gambit told him. "C'mon."

"Where are we going?" Jesus asked, stumbling after Gambit and out of the elevator.

"Back to de server room," Gambit told him. The two reentered the office area and returned to the server room. Once inside, Gambit picked up a package of zip ties used to bundle cables.

"Gimme your wrist," he told the janitor.

"What? Why?" Jesus asked as Gambit took him by the arm. Gambit quickly bound the man's wrist to the empty server rack. "H-hey!"

"Pop a squat," Gambit told him and took the man's other wrist. "If anyone asks, I got de jump on you and left y'here." Gambit looped several more of the plastic zip ties around the man's wrists, pinning him to the server rack. Jesus relented and sat on the floor, his back against the rack. Gambit crouched beside him.

"Where's your wife and kid?" Gambit asked.

Jesus shook his head. "The Bronx. But...she's not my wife. I wasn't lying when I said I sent all my money back home. I send it t'her. For the kid...my girl. But she don't want nothing to do with me. I made a mistake."

Gambit stood. "All right. Let me get your compadres upstairs sorted out and get de proper authorities here. I'll have my boss pull de strings for you and your girl. Sit tight."

Gambit returned to the elevator, sending a text message to Denti as he did. He retrieved a playing card from the pouch at his belt, charged it slowly and left it on top of the stack of servers on the pallet jack. He pressed the button to send the elevator up one flight. The loud buzz that signaled the closing of the large metal doors sounded and Gambit stepped off the elevator. As the doors banged closed, he was off like a shot towards the metal staircase. Gambit took the first set of stairs in two bounds, touching down on the first landing and turning to dash up the second set. He raced the elevator up to the next floor where it was announcing its arrival. He dashed down a short utility hall to a door leading to shipping and receiving. There was a long rectangular reinforced window in the steel door so that people could see whether or not someone was exiting. Through the window, Gambit could spy the five men waiting in the shipping and receiving room. Four of them were turning to face the elevator.

"'Bout time," one of them said loudly.

When the men were distracted by the opening elevator, Gambit slipped through the door and into the large open room. Along the walls were wooden pallets with boxes of paper, cleaning products, and other supplies for the building. The pallets were placed well over a foot from the walls, as instructed by the fire marshal.

_At least_ something _follows regulations_ , Gambit thought to himself as he passed through the space between the stacks of boxes and the wall. The large metal door to the loading dock had been hauled open. One man stood on the dock with the servers, waiting for the truck from Iron Mountain. He was carrying a weapon, a gun. It seemed they were planning on hijacking the Iron Mountain truck. Luckily, that truck would never come. As Gambit neared the door, he could peer between the stacks of boxes. He saw Jim, the facilities manager, lying on his stomach, dead on the floor. He had been shot in the head. Blood pooled on the concrete.

_Zut_ , Gambit thought, his mind going dark. An innocent civilian was dead on his watch. Someone would pay now, and Gambit would feel guilty later. He crept forward, making his way towards the man at the dock.

By this time, the elevator doors had opened and the four gang members had gathered.

"Where the fuck is Jesus?" one of the men asked, looking into the elevator.

"What's that?" asked another man, pointing at the glowing card.

Gambit was now at the loading dock door, hiding just beside the opening. The man on the dock was slowly wandering towards him, made curious by the commentary from the elevator. " _Que pasa_?" the gang member called.

_Three..two...one_ , Gambit counted silently just as the gunman from the dock passed him. In the elevator, Gambit's charged card detonated, sending two men flying into the walls of the elevator car. The other two fell back, skidding across the smooth cement floor on their backs. Gambit seized the gunman from behind, twisting the weapon from the man's grip. The gun fired into the ceiling before Gambit could pull it away. He flipped the man onto his back, twisting the gang member's gun arm as he did. Gambit could feel the bone break in the man's arm as he forcefully hit the ground. The man screamed out in pain. Gambit silenced him with a kick to the jaw. Blood spattered across the garage floor.

Two of the gang members were scrambling to their feet, alerted by the gunfire. One raised his own firearm in Gambit's direction. Gambit responded by raising and firing the gun he'd claimed. The shot went wide, but Gambit had let a charge flow through the grip into the chamber and into the fired round. The resulting explosion as the charged bullet struck the back wall was impressive. The wall exploded outwards in a blast of pink and white energy. The gang member was thrown forward several yards and did not get up again. Chunks of broken concrete and cinderblock rained down around his still form.

Gambit looked at the handgun, impressed with himself. " _Alors là_ , that was cool. Mebbe I oughta get me one of these?"

Gambit ducked and dashed aside as gunfire was returned from within the freight elevator. Apparently, his card trick was not enough to put down the remaining gang members. Gambit disappeared behind a stack of boxes. A bullet whizzed past his skull, striking the corner of the box of paper he was hiding behind. Gambit grinned to himself. And he had thought this job wasn't going to be exciting! He was about to reappear and return fire (he was pretty enthusiastic to have another chance to make a big boom) when he realized the room had gone silent. The last echoes of gunfire from the surrounding cavernous room had faded. With the gun raised and his back pressed to the stack of boxes, he raised himself to peer into the room. Tendrils of smoke were clearing, but otherwise there was no movement. In addition to Jim's body, Gambit counted three unconscious figures on the garage floor, one other was laying half in and half out of the elevator.

_Where's number five?_ Gambit wondered. He began to creep along the wall, gun in one hand, staff in the other. He paused at each stack of boxes to glance through the spaces between them and into the room. Still, there was nothing. Gambit thought perhaps the last gang member had fled. He cautiously approached the freight elevator, finally detaching himself from the cover of the storage boxes. He could see one man in the elevator. The servers had been destroyed.

_So much for data recovery_ , Gambit thought grimly and frowned.

He caught a flash of moment from the corner of his eye, turned, and fired. Cardboard and wood detonated in a flash as a year's supply of toilet paper rocketed into the air like streamers of fire. The remaining gang member was caught in a blaze of charged toilet paper, windmilling his arms and screaming. Gambit caught him in the throat with his staff as the man ran past, and the gang member dropped to the ground, gagging. He was rendered unconscious by a blow to the head.

Gambit stuck the firearm behind his back into the waistband of his suit and approached one of the fallen gang members. He removed another playing card from his pouch as well as a pen. He collapsed his staff and tucked it under his arm. Holding the card in one hand he wrote a note on it, crouched, and stuck the card to the sweat on the unconscious man's forehead. The card read: "Carl. Your wellcome." Gambit considered the card for a moment, unstuck it from the man's head and added an apostrophe and an 'E' to 'your,' and then pressed the card back into place.

"See, and Kitty says I can't spell," Gambit said to the unconscious man.

He was about to stand when he heard a voice speak from behind him: "Drop your weapons."

Gambit froze, then slowly turned his head to glance over his shoulder. In the center of the room was a man. Gambit could see his dark form silhouetted against the light falling from the open garage door. That lithe form had a pair of short stubby devil horns springing from his forehead. Gambit relaxed his shoulders and exhaled in relief.

Gambit stood and turned. "Hey, Darede –," he began just as the man's arm shot out, releasing a white billy club from his grip as he did so. Gambit didn't get to finish his greeting as he instinctively ducked and the billy club struck the wall behind his head. As Gambit moved to stand again, the billy club rebounded off the wall and struck him hard in the jaw. Gambit spun with the force of the blow, his hand raised to grip his aching jaw. He made a muffled sound of pain as the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.

Daredevil was in motion, flying towards him with the other half of his club in hand. As it swung towards him, Gambit managed to smack it away with his shortened staff at the last moment. He twisted aside as Daredevil touched down beside him. Daredevil fell into a crouch, hoping to sweep Gambit's legs from beneath him with a well-placed kick. Gambit flipped backwards, landing several yards away. He raised his hand hoping to wave Daredevil off.

"You stupid jerk! I think you broke my teeth!" he attempted to say, but what came out instead was a half-slurred mumble and yet more blood. He yanked his mask down from his face. Not that it did Gambit any good, Daredevil wouldn't recognize his face by sight.

"I didn't quite catch that," Daredevil said lightly as he moved to attack. "Come again?"

Gambit growled and fell back into a defensive crouch as Daredevil began to whip his club into a spin by its cord. The two men circled one another. Daredevil pursued his attack and Gambit gave up ground. He attempted to make a break for the open garage door, not wanting to engage Daredevil any further. Daredevil leapt and Gambit caught him by the arms. Gambit was borne to the ground, but he used Daredevil's momentum to throw the man over his head. Daredevil twisted and managed to land on his hands and feet like a cat. Gambit threw himself forward to somersault across the floor. Once on his feet again, he bolted for the steel door to the utility hall. Sensing another attack, he ducked and the billy club whipped over his head, swung by its cord. He narrowly missed being wrapped in Daredevil's trap.

Gambit dashed through the door and into the hall, taking to the stairs. Daredevil was hard on his heels. Gambit continued up several flights of stairs, taking them in bounds and using the handrail to launch himself upwards. He saw he was now on the sixth floor. Gambit threw himself at the door, yanked it open, and dashed into the office area. He quickly turned the corner knowing there was a fire extinguisher just next to the door to the stairwell. He seized it and turned just as Daredevil burst through the steel door. Gambit pulled the pin in the extinguisher's handle and blasted Daredevil in the face with the resulting spray of foam. Daredevil recoiled, drawing in a lungful of fire retardant. Gambit swung the fire extinguisher and threw it at Daredevil. There was a satisfying grunt as the extinguisher caught Daredevil in the gut. Gambit turned and dashed down the hall of cubicles towards the opposite side of the floor. Daredevil managed to recover and stumble after him.

"Oo mo-romn...!" Gambit cursed. "Schtmp chryung t'beam muh uck!"

"'Beam you up'?" Daredevil repeated.

With a snarl, Gambit seized a printer cart as he ran past and tossed it into Daredevil's path. Daredevil vaulted the tumbling cart and printer as Gambit stumbled to catch himself against the wall. He had made it across the expanse of the floor towards the emergency exit. Gambit propelled himself from the wall and was about to dash to the exit when the door was thrown open.

"Freeze!" Solomon shouted and aimed his sidearm at Gambit's face.

Gambit drew up short and raised his hands. "Sol!" he tried to shout.

Daredevil swung his arm and the billy club's cord wrapped itself around Sol's wrists. With a jerk, Daredevil yanked Solomon forward and tossed his second club, catching the security guard in the forehead. Solomon crashed face-first to the carpet as Gambit spun on Daredevil. Of course, Daredevil was blind and all he could sense was a man aiming a gun in his direction. He had no clue that he'd just attacked and wounded a civilian. Gambit swung his fist and Daredevil threw himself backward to avoid the blow. The heel of Gambit's hand smashed down on the wall, triggering the fire alarm he was aiming for. The building exploded with sound and flashing light. Daredevil clutched his hands to his sensitive ears, shouting with pain.

Gambit leapt over the prone figure of the security guard, throwing a playing card at the huge plate-glass window as he did so. The window exploded outward and Gambit flew through it. As he passed through the flying glass he turned mid-air, raising his collapsed staff over his head. He clicked the mechanism to telescope it to its full length in the window well. The staff lodged itself snugly into the window well and as gravity took hold of Gambit, he used his other hand to clip a grappling line to the middle of the staff. The other end of the line was attached to the belt at his waist. It all happened in a matter of seconds, with Gambit twisting through the air along with flying glass and debris. The line spun out from his belt and he slowed his descent, rebounding once with his feet off the side of the building, and flipping himself like an Olympic diver towards the street below.

Below him, police and emergency vehicles were arriving with their strobing red and blue lights and blaring sirens. Above him, the entire NABC building was flashing with blueish white light as the alarms continued to sound. Gambit's soaring arc took him over the large construction container positioned on the street alongside the backhoe. He dropped into it with a resonant clang and fell into a crouch. For a moment, he rested with his hand against the inside wall of the container, trying to catch his breath. The flashing red and blue lights of police vehicles surrounded him. He could hear the sound of running feet as the firefighters stormed the building.

Gambit reached above him to grip the edge of the container. He pulled himself upward, threw one arm over the lip and then the other. Looking around, he saw a black SUV pull in front of NABC with a soft screech of tires. The driver's side door opened and the tall, square figure of Carl Denti unfolded himself form the interior. Other black cars were arriving. Figures dressed in dark blue vests with the gold letters 'FBI' emblazoned on the back began spilling from the vehicles. They filed toward the bank building. Gambit pulled a leg over the side of the trash container and tumbled out into the street, all his athletic grace momentarily spent. He leaned his rump against the storage container, head down, hands on his knees. Denti approached him and put a stabilizing hand to Gambit's shoulder.

"You're hurt," Denti said, regarding Gambit's bleeding face.

"Guk," Gambit replied through swollen lips.

Denti reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and extracted a handkerchief. He offered it to Gambit, who took it and pressed it to his bleeding mouth.

"What happened?" Denti asked.

Gambit inhaled and righted himself. "Yer whistleblower is in de basement tied to a server rack," Gambit tried to tell him though his speech was slurred like a drunk's. Denti maintained his hold on Gambit's shoulder and listened carefully and silently. He nodded slowly.

"Bit of a misunderstandin'," Gambit continued. "Might've roughed him up some. There's a security guard up on de sixth. He's hurt. Five thugs in de shipping room, out cold...one man, dead."

"What happened to your face?" Denti asked.

"Daredevil. Another misunderstandin'. Apparently, he mistook me f'r a criminal. Go figure."

"Get yourself cleaned up," Denti told him and handed him the keys to his SUV. "You look done in. Get some rest. I'll debrief you in the morning."

Gambit's fingers closed over the car keys. He looked at Denti for a heartbeat. Finally, he nodded. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Denti nodded over his shoulder to the black SUV. "Go on. I can handle this from here."

Gambit moved towards the vehicle and turned to watch as Denti began to take control of the situation, even though he had no legal jurisdiction to do so. Gambit wondered what quality a man possessed that could give him the confidence and authority to just walk into any situation and take over. He had mild awe and a definite sense of appreciation for men like that; Cyclops had that quality, as did his own father, Jean-Luc. Meanwhile, any situation Gambit walked into seemed to collapse into spontaneous insanity.

He climbed into the vehicle and pulled the door closed, sealing himself in sudden luxurious silence. Gambit started the SUV and put it into reverse, steering himself away from the cacophony of NABC, the FBI, the police, and fire department. He drove himself back towards New York's East Side. As he drove, he attempted to suppress angry thoughts directed at Daredevil.

" _Gosh darned dang-blasted son of a mother Daredevil_ ," he ranted to himself, but alas, it didn't give him the satisfaction of a decent cussing-out. " _No good meddling nosy jerk-faced jerk_!"

Gambit touched the side of his face and winced. Gosh darn it if he had to go to the dentist. He _hated_ the dentist. He'd send Matt Murdock his medical bills. Gambit pulled the SUV into the parking garage beneath his apartment building. His parking spot was intended for a motorcycle, not a giant black Cadillac.

" _Frick this_ ," Gambit thought and steered the vehicle into the narrow space. He was looking forward to a hot shower and his bed. His housekeeper would have had the place perfectly clean, the bed made, the bathroom pristine. Whatever cleaner she used smelled nice. It contained homeopathic aromatherapy, she'd told him once. He could already feel the knots in his neck untying themselves. He leaned his head back into the leather headrest and sighed. All he was attempting, since the start of Lent, was to do the right thing. He was giving up the things that were bad for him. His intentions were _good_.

"De road t'hell," Gambit muttered and pulled himself from the vehicle.

He punched the button to call the elevator. He hoped it was late enough that no one would see him in the state he was in, wearing a dark black form-fitted suit like some unimaginative criminal (what, no pink?) and bleeding profusely from the mouth. The elevator arrived and he stepped inside. Soft bland music played as he rode the elevator car to his floor. The doors rolled open and he stepped into the hall. The plush carpeting swallowed his footfalls. Gambit took out his phone. While he fumbled for it, he realized he was still carrying the firearm. He grunted, annoyed with himself. Gambit began typing a text to Denti to tell him where he could pick up his SUV. He unlocked and opened the door to his apartment. He walked into the apartment and glanced up from composing his text. Gambit saw the spray of blood across the fabric of his couch; a body was sprawled lifeless on the decorative rug. Gambit came to a sudden halt and blinked slowly as the sensation of disembodied disassociation washed over him. Gambit looked down to see himself dead in his own living room.

* * *

Next time: Just when things couldn't get worse for our young hero...they do.


	21. White Rabbit

**Somewhere Else**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Remy held the gold watch to his ear. The watch was silent. He regarded the pale clock face; the hands were frozen in time, unmoving. The watch The Witness had given him was broken. Remy had lost track of time. He swallowed compulsively. His throat felt tight. He placed the gold watch back into his coat pocket. Remy stood in a small pool of dim light, cast through the bars of the grate above him. He shivered in the wet darkness. His sneakers were sodden, his clothing saturated with water and grime. Occasionally, the ceiling would drip and a cold fat drop of gritty water would slide down his neck into his shirt. He sniffled and rubbed his nose on his coat sleeve.

A shadow fell over him and he stepped out from under the grate. The girl, Alice, was standing above him. She looked down at Remy through the grate bars.

"And still you have found nothing," she said coolly. "Perhaps I should impress upon you a deeper sense of urgency."

Remy took another few stumbling steps back, splashing through the silty water at his feet. Alice would hurt him at the slightest infraction, cause him terrible pain inside his skull.

He drew a shaking breath and spoke with bravado: "I know you won't kill me. If you were gonna, you'da done it by now."

Alice smiled her cruel smile. "No, young man. But I could make you wish for death. I suggest you continue your search, post haste."

Remy cast a disheartened glance down the length of dark tunnel. His surroundings were not only cold, dark, and damp, but also reeked of decay like the fine slick mud of the bayou. He was in some sort of underground network of tunnels. He realized that though the tunnels may smell like parts of home, he was far from New Orleans. There was no way a labyrinth of underground pathways like this could exist in his home town. However, like New Orleans, these tunnels had flooded at some point, leaving behind a half-foot of sludge, trash, broken concrete, and tiles. Portions of the tunnel had collapsed, and it seemed he could go in any direction for only so long before encountering a blockage. He'd found remnants of clothing, cookware, and furniture that led him to believe that these tunnels had at one time been inhabited. Remy had a map of the tunnels laid out inside his mind, and he returned to this spot under the grate after each failed search.

Remy's stomach cramped. Though he hadn't eaten anything in some time, he was not hungry. He had a constant headache and experienced waves of nausea. Alice regarded him for a moment through the grate, then moved away.

"Water, water, every where..." she said tauntingly when she returned. She dropped a bottle of water through the grate bars. It landed in the mud with a splash. "Sustain yourself, lad."

Then she left. Remy moved slowly to the bottle of water and retrieved it from the mud. He looked up at the grate. He had tried to move it to no avail. He had tried to use his powers, but he could not. His abilities came to him reflexively, like an eye blink. Now that they were gone, the sensation of flexing his mutant powers felt like a phantom limb. Try as he could to trigger that reflex, he could not summon the charge.

Remy returned to his search. Alice had told him he was looking for a rabbit hole. Remy thought she was being facetious. But he was instructed there would be some pathway down here to another world. Remy didn't want to venture any further into the earth than he already had. Surely, anyplace lower would be Hell. He returned to a stretch of tunnels that branched off in two directions. On one side he had drawn a black X on the crumbling walls with some mud. There was nothing to be found down that way. It ended an an impenetrable round steel door, buried halfway in sludge and debris. He turned down the opposite length, one he had not yet fully explored. When he found a patch of concrete that lifted clear of the mud, he stepped up onto it. He was glad to have found some place out of the wet. Remy sat and drank his water slowly. It would make his stomach feel full for a while anyway. He drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them. He rested his forehead on his knees and closed his eyes.

He was so, so sorry for having left home. He wondered if Jean-Luc was looking for him. Remy thought back to the night he'd first time-traveled on accident. Jean-Luc and Tante Mattie had come to find him. The thought of it now made him sad. Now he hoped to be so lucky as to have someone searching for him, to see the reassuring light from their flashlights bobbing towards him from the darkness. Why did he ever think he'd be better off without them, his family?

Remy turned his head and stared out into the darkness. He continued to sit, conserving his energy for the next few hours of searching. His eyes blinked slowly and he drifted into a daze. When he heard the first soft sounds of scratching, he thought it was in a dream. But then the scratching noise came nearer. Remy's eyes flew open and cast about, though the rest of him remained motionless.

_Rats_ , he thought, and he looked for signs of the rodents; a flurry of movement or the pale flash of bare pink tails. It wasn't a rat he spotted, but something else. Remy sat frozen on the spot as he saw a dark, vaguely humanoid shape scurry though the shadows. It made a soft chirping and clicking noise as it moved, like a bat. It even had tall, pointed ears like a bat. Its eyes were bulbous, but slitted to a squint. Remy breathed shallowly as the thing drew nearer. The creature paused at a branch in the tunnels and made its echoing click sound. Its ears swiveled about. Then it continued down the tunnel and out of sight, scrambling on all four of its long thin limbs.

Remy unfolded himself and sat in a crouch. Something prompted him to move forward, though he wanted nothing but to run in the opposite direction and away from the creature. Slowly, he began to follow. He approached the branch in the tunnel and peered down it. Down the length he could spy the creature. It moved cautiously, calling out in clicks before moving forward. It turned down another tunnel and disappeared. Remy crept along the edge of the tunnel, where it was slightly raised from the muck and he wouldn't splash so much. He reached the turn and peered around the corner. The strange creature had vanished, but Remy saw something else in the darkness. It was a strange flickering blue light.

He made his way towards the small light. When he reached it, he saw it was a sort of gemstone, like a diamond that glowed with an inner blue fire. It had been crammed into a crack in the wall. He touched it with his forefinger. The light was so bright, it left spots in his vision. Remy heard the soft click of the creature and froze. It was echoing from somewhere. He glanced about, searching for the source of the sound. There, below the shining diamond, was a crack in the tunnel wall. It was the rabbit hole.

Remy crouched and peered through it. It was dark, but he could hear the creature. He slipped through the fissure in the concrete wall, feeling his way blindly in the darkness. His hands encountered dark wet rock; his feet, uneven ground. In the distance, he could see another flicker of blue. He moved towards it. When Remy reached the glowing rock, he could see the cavern open up like a wide maw of some giant beast. He could hear the flow of water. He came to a precipice and looked down. He could see the silvery flash of rushing water below. In the distance were faint pinpricks of blue-white light leading a path into the darkness. Over the sound of the water, he could still hear the faint clicking of the creature.

Remy slipped down a switchback path that led downwards to the water. Once there, he could see a few long flat rocks that made a crooked bridge across. He traversed it. The clicking was louder. He was nearly on top of the creature by now, it was in front of him and slightly below. It moved over the rocks cautiously, pausing every once in awhile to sound its clicks. It seemed frightened, Remy thought. He came to the edge of a rock and from beneath the toe of his sneaker, a small pebble detached and tumbled downwards. The creature heard the sound and paused. It turned its head to look up in his direction, though Remy thought the thing likely couldn't see but only hear. He could see the flash of its sharp pointed teeth. It made a soft scree-ing sound, it's ropy muscles tightened to spring. Remy stood frozen for an instant.

Before the creature could leap, there was a large splash and a sudden flash of movement. Something erupted from the river; a huge monster that resembled an eel-like fish. It curved sideways and its jaws opened, revealing terrible rows of fangs. The monster's mouth closed with a snap on the goblin-creature and in a flash it was gone, disappearing beneath the surface of the water.

Shaking, Remy dropped to his hands and knees. His body shuddered with fear. He glanced upwards, thinking to return to the relative safety of the tunnels. But his body wouldn't obey. He was forced onward. He was definitely going to Hell.

He moved as silently as possible, fearful of attracting any attention with noise. Having spent some time in the tunnels however, he likely smelled terrible. That was how the next creature found him. Remy hugged an outcropping of rock as he saw the huge furry monster nose its way out of a crevice in the wall on the opposite side of the river. Its nose was pink and composed of a cluster of long wet tentacles, which scented the air. Remy could see its long yellow teeth as the mole-like monster raised its head. With the rushing river separating Remy from the creature, the thing grew frustrated as it was denied the tasty and smelly snack that lay just on the other side of the cavern. Finally, with a snuffling grunt, the thing returned to its lair.

Remy was pressed onwards and ever downwards. He slipped down a length of smooth slick rock, climbed over stones, and at last reached a point in the river where the water calmed. Remy's feet found grainy sand. He began along the shore. The light had increased and he could now make out distinct shapes. He climbed up a bank towards the light which flashed on the cavernous ceiling overhead. At the top of the bank he looked down to see a bowl of a verdant valley. Several hut-like cottages clustered around a great shining manor. Remy blinked at the sight. It was like looking down into a fairy tale; that is, if you ignored the remnants of burned bodies strewn about.

On his way towards the manor, he encountered more of the goblin-like creatures. They were all dead, their bodies twisted and mutilated. The mud huts were uninhabited. He came to the outer wall surrounding the manor. From the bank above, he had seen there was a main entryway. He veered away from it to walk along the outer wall. Along the wall, he came upon a chicken coop. There were a few chickens roosting inside. To Remy, they looked scrawny. He walked past the coop to a gate in the wall. He peered through the bars into a small courtyard. Remy pushed through the gate. He saw an alleyway and walked towards it. The alleyway went on for several feet. To his left was a doorway.

The door squealed slightly on rusty hinges. Remy cringed, then pushed the door open just wide enough to slip through. Once through the door, he found himself in a stable. He passed a large metal tube composed of rusting sheets of metal that was as wide around as a tractor tire and stretched upwards past the rafters. On the tube, something like a huge gear turned slowly above. Steam puffed out of it in intervals. He did not know what to make of the machine, but something in his head shifted. The skin at the back of his neck crawled and he could envision Alice's cruel smile. At the front of the machine was a sliding door. Remy approached it and pressed an ear to the door. Suddenly, it rattled and Remy jumped back. The gear made a groaning noise and came to a halt. Remy walked backwards away from the device to come up against one of the stable stalls. He stood for a moment, bracing himself against the wood while waiting to see what the machine would do.

Two clawed hands descended on him from above, clutching at the front of his shirt. Remy cried out in fright and yanked away from the grasping hands. His shirt tore and several angry claw marks appeared on his chest. Remy scrambled away, turning to see an enormous bear of a man inside the stall. His hair was wild and blond, his insane eyes were blue. The man snarled incoherently at him and reached out with burly arms through the bars of the stall. A second man appeared in the next stall, looking exactly the same as the first. He joined in the snarling, biting the bars in his desire to tear Remy limb from limb. Remy ran.

He came up against the front door of the stable and pulled the door open. It slid aside and he darted through. He was now in another courtyard. He ran over the open ground, feeling exposed. He came up against the manor wall and crouched against it, trying to catch his breath. There was a window above his head. He peered through it to see a kitchen. The kitchen was empty.

Remy pulled open the door and entered the house. It was quiet. He passed through the kitchen into a dark hallway and started up a creaking wooden staircase. At the top, he found another door. He opened it and saw a dimly lit hallway. The floor was carpeted. Along the walls were glass-shaded lamps that glowed softly against dark wood-paneling. It seemed to be the main part of the house. Remy padded silently into the hall. His own sweat stung the scratches in his chest. He itched at them carefully.

Remy came to a balcony and looked down into a foyer. Above was a skylight of milky-white glass. A crystal chandelier hung at the center. Below was a black and white checkered floor of marble tile. Remy could hear footfalls sounding across the tile floor. A woman appeared from below him. Her hair was red and she wore a long, old-fashioned looking gown. She walked towards a decorative screen and passed behind it. Behind him, the grandfather clock began to chime.

Remy started down the staircase, following the woman. He came to the wooden screen and peered through it into the room beyond. It was a library. The woman approached a desk and the man seated there. Remy nearly gasped in shock. It was the pale man from the hospital! Only he was dressed in ornamental Victorian-like garb and his dark hair was long. A stillness fell upon Remy and he felt as if his entire body were gripped in a vice. The man and the woman spoke quietly and at last the woman turned to leave. Remy saw that her face was beautiful, her skin like porcelain against the flaming red of her hair. Her green eyes however, were cold and her smile cruel. She passed by Remy's hiding place and started across the foyer to the staircase.

At that moment, Remy felt as if his body were seized by an unseen force. His body moved rigidly of its own accord, as if he were a stiff-limbed puppet on strings. He was dragged unwillingly from behind the screen and into the library. He wanted to scream.

The man at the desk stood upon Remy's sudden entrance. The pale man regarded Remy with curiosity. His long-fingered hand smoothed his neatly trimmed beard.

"Well," the pale man said finally. "What is this? An unexpected guest."

Remy came to stand before the pale man. Remy's posture was confident, though he felt nothing of the sort. His jaw seemed to unhinge itself and to his shock and horror, he was speaking against his will.

"I would speak to you, fraud," Remy said.

The pale man's mouth curled into a smile. "Ah...," he breathed. "I wondered if you would come. You flatter me with your consideration, my progenitor! But tell me, if it were in your power to do so, why not come yourself? Why send this slip of a boy?"

Remy had no idea what the pale man was talking about. He spoke again: "I wished to send a message, you foolish degenerate."

The pale man tossed his head back and laughed. "Oh! Do you disapprove of your most recent incarnation? I only longed for the creature-comforts you so long denied yourself. Wine, women, and song, yes?"

Remy stood and stoically stared at the pale man. Inside, he was rebelling. He struggled to force the invasive presence from his mind. He felt sick and violated.

"Well, what is your message?" the pale man asked. He leaned forward slightly.

Remy drew a shaking breath. For a moment, his mouth opened but no words issued forth. There was a battle raging inside him and the muscles in his neck and shoulders grew painfully tight as he fought.

"I'm _waiting_...," the pale man said in a sing-song voice.

Finally, the words worked their way from Remy's throat. "Your masquerade is over, impostor," he croaked. Then Remy felt a pull, the reflexive response as he released his powers. They came back to him in a sudden rush, flooding his body, his limbs, and the inside of his skull until all he could see was bright blinding light. Then the world ignited with the same light, the charge swallowing everything in a white-hot glow; the floor tiles, the book-lined walls, the ceiling, and the pale man himself. And then the world exploded.

* * *

Next time: Where the clone's map will take you...


	22. X Marks The Spot

**The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Ororo felt that she may have handled the situation with Gambit poorly. He had seemed so disengaged from his life at the school, preoccupied, and perhaps bored. When Captain America had expressed a passing interest in Gambit's potential skill set in espionage, Ororo had thought the challenge would entice Remy. She certainly assumed that he would welcome the chance to follow Rogue into the Avengers. Apparently, she had been mistaken. He had laughed when she brought him the proposition. After she had explained to him that she was not speaking in jest, he waved off the offer as if it were a bad odor to be dispersed. Remy then turned the conversation onto trivial matters. He told her they needed dinner and drinks. He wanted to take her dancing, he said. Ororo became irritable with him. He tried teasing her, then flirting with her to cajole her out of her irritation.

"I refuse to allow you to steer the course of this conversation any longer," Ororo had informed him. "We can continue when you are ready to speak as an adult."

He tugged on her hand, trying to coax her onto the couch where he had been lounging (and in Ororo's opinion, staring blankly into space doing nothing particularly useful). "Don't be mad, Stormy. Come sit by me a spell. I want t'catch up wit' you." Then he apologized, was contrite, and worse still, sympathetic to her current relationship status. This only served to aggravate her further. Ororo had made it her practice to avoid overwrought emotions, to maintain her serenity, whereas Remy seemed to revel in overdramatic chaos. She wondered how it was they ever remained friends.

Later, she would wonder if they still were. Perhaps they had grown apart. Friends were in short supply, where Ororo was concerned. Two of her dearest and closest friends, Jean and Kurt, were dead. It was tragic to let her friendship with Remy lapse. She thought she might try to reconcile with him. He would, with time, find his own way. Even if he had to take the most difficult and circuitous path to get there.

When she went looking for him, she could not find him in his usual places. Remy failed to appear at his scheduled classes, though the students seemed not to have noticed his absence. Joanna reported that he had not been gorging himself on fried food in the cafeteria as usual. Nor did Ororo find him in Logan's office drinking whisky, napping midday in the teacher's lounge alongside Doop, hanging from the gymnastic equipment in the workout room with Hank, or fighting Bobby over the remote control in the recreation room. She sought him out in the staff quarters. When she knocked at his door, there was no response.

Ororo opened the door and peered into his room. The room was dark. She entered and walked to the window. Drawing up the shade, she found the room was devoid of any personal effects. The walls were bare. The bed had been haphazardly made. It was the only sign that someone had once been in residence. Ororo opened his closet. It too, was empty. She experienced a moment of trepidation. There was a waste basket beside the bed. It contained a few scraps of paper, most of it burned, but not all. Ororo picked up the remnants of a glossy brochure. The portion of the cover that remained read: Dealing with Depression. She was alarmed by this, that she had not been conscious of the signs that he may have been ill. Ororo opened the brochure and read that symptoms include: lack of interest, lethargy, sleeplessness, dizziness, feelings of low self-worth, irritability. She sat on the edge of the unmade bed for a moment to think. Had she witnessed any of these symptoms? Indeed, she could name several in any one of her colleagues. But Remy in particular?

She knew she was grasping at straws by going to his office. When she opened the door to the small room just past the laundry, she was surprised to find it occupied. A red-headed girl was seated at the desk, her head bowed over a piece of paper, a green colored pencil in her hand.

"Oh," Ororo said, watching as the teenage version of her friend, Jean Grey, glanced up from her drawing to look at her. Jean looked surprised as well, absorbed in her drawing as she was.

Jean sat upright in the office chair. "Oh," she echoed. "I – hullo, Professor Munroe."

Ororo regarded the girl with curiosity. "What are you doing in here?" she asked and cast a glance around the small white room. It was spartan, it lacked even a window.

Jean's face began to turn pink. "Remy – I mean, Professor LeBeau...he told me it was okay to come in here. That I could use his office while he was gone."

Ororo stepped into the room. It was little more than a closet, really. The younger girl placed her pencil into the colorful box she had on the desk. It was an old cigar box. "I was not aware the two of you had spoken," Ororo said.

Jean's face continued to redden until it was nearly the color of her hair. She nodded.

"When was this?" Ororo asked.

Jean paused to think. "Maybe two weeks ago," she replied finally.

"Did he tell you he was going somewhere?" Ororo asked.

"No," Jean said. "He didn't tell me where. Only that he was going."

"Oh," Ororo said, discomfited. She did not understand why Remy would speak to a teen girl rather than talk to any of his colleagues. "Did he say when he would return?"

Jean seemed relieved. "Yes...after spring break. Were you looking for him?" she asked. "Only that a bunch of other people are looking for him, too." Jean pointed to the office phone on the desk. The red light on the phone was lit, signifying the waiting voice mails. "It rings every time I'm in here."

Ororo regarded the phone for a moment, and then turned to smile wanly at Jean. "Remy and I seem to have lost track of one another," she said. "Tell me, Jean. Are you not uncomfortable in here? This room is quite warm."

Jean shook her head. "No, I like it," she replied then looked sheepish. "Though I suppose I should probably get going...to class..."

Ororo raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms across her chest, though her smile was kind. Jean ducked her head a bit and shrugged her shoulders with a grimace. She collected her drawing pad and her box and moved to leave.

Before she passed Ororo she paused and said: "No one else knows I come in here."

Ororo nodded at her. "Your secret is safe with me."

Jean smiled gratefully and Ororo felt her heart twist painfully in her chest. Jean slipped through the door and started off down the hall. Ororo watched her go, feeling as though she had missed an opportunity somehow. Ororo thought it would do little good to befriend the girl when Jean would inevitably return to her own timeline and forget all that had transpired during her time in the future.

Ororo approached the telephone and picked up the receiver. Remy had a strange sort of affliction when it came to passwords. He seemed unable to resist breaking codes. There was never a need for a reminder to change passwords when Remy was around. If a password had gone too long unchanged, the user would find himself either locked out of his own computer, subscribed to any number of e-mailing lists, or the recipient of some annoying technological virus. As it stood, Kitty was the only member of the household to have kept Remy out of her computer. Robert Drake still found himself receiving regular updates from a mailing list called "Cat Facts," much to his annoyance. Remy himself did not bother with passwords at all.

_The cobbler's children go unshod_ , Ororo thought. _And the thief's doors go unlocked._

When prompted for a password, Ororo pressed the zero button on the keypad four times.

"First unheard message," the cool automated voice intoned. "Message one. New. From." There was a click and then the message began: "Amber Delassandro!" announced a chipper voice. Then: "Hey, Remeeee..." began he message. The woman used a wheedling sort of tone. "I know you said you were going to be out of town for a bit... _but_ I was _hoping_ you might be able to help me out tomorrow night...?"

If Ororo was the type to roll her eyes, she would have done so just then.

"Do you think you could cover for Mandy's shift at the food pantry tomorrow? She's got to go to parent-teacher conferences and can't make it in. Anyway, she'd love if you'd trade shifts with her! And I'd really, _really_ appreciate it! Pleeease? Okay, give me a call back! Bye-eee!"

Ororo blinked. Well, that wasn't what she had been expecting at all.

"Next unheard message. From," said the voice mail operator. "Mike Stich," growled the man who was presumably Mike Stich. "Remy, it's Mike. You got to pay your dues, man."

Ororo thought: _Was this some kind of threat?_

"Yeah," continued Mike. "It's that time a'year, sorry. I fucking hate being treasurer. Why'd I ever take over for you, I don't know. Just put the money in the damned kitty next time. So, and...oh yeah, the Ride for Freedom is set for May. Mark your calendar. See ya Thursday."

Ororo didn't know what to make of that either. The following message was from Cecelia Reyes. "It's Cece," she said. "I thought about what you said. Call me, we can talk. I hope you're feeling better. Bye."

Ororo felt a little annoyed that Remy should be discussing his feelings with Cecelia, but tried not to dwell too much on why she should feel that way. The following message was entirely in French. The voice mail operator informed her that the number and caller was unknown.

" _Remy, je dois te parler immédiatement_ ," said a female voice. " _Il y a quelqu'un qui veut que tu meures. Rappelle-moi,_ " The message abruptly ended.

That was certainly ominous. All Ororo understood was the urgency of the message.

"Next unheard message. From phone number: five-zero-four-five-five-five-six-zero-seven-two." The message was from a man who sounded defeated. He began speaking with a sort of sigh. "Voice-mail again? Remy. I wish you would stop avoiding my calls. Will you please talk to me, son?"

That was Jean-Luc, Ororo thought. She wondered what it was he wanted. Remy's family rarely reached out to him unless they wanted something from him.

"Next unheard message. From," said the voice mail operator. "Carl Denti," spoke another man. "...LeBeau. I need to schedule another sit-down with you. I'm on my way to New York. In the meantime, maybe you should do your civic duty and take a closer look at your state representative. Honoré DesJarlais."

Another mystery, Ororo thought. Remy was certainly a lot busier than she imagined.

She had reached the final message: "Oh...um, hello. Hello. You don't – you don't know me. But my name is Helen. Helen Moreau. I'm originally from New Orleans. I live in Boston now. I found your name and number on the school's website. I wanted to reach out to you...because – because I know something about your birth parents. I don't know if you are interested in finding out more. But if you are, I would like to talk to you. Please, feel free to call me any time." Here she paused to give her phone number. She paused before reluctantly saying: "Goodbye."

Ororo listened and then put the receiver down into its cradle. She still had no explanation to Remy's disappearance, but an inkling that his personal life had perhaps subsumed his life with the X-Men. She felt she had been kept apart from either life. They had been separated since Wolverine and Cyclops had diverged. Remy had departed Utopia for the school seemingly without any consideration at all. Perhaps he had been looking for an excuse to leave.

Ororo continued her search, waiting until the end of the week to leave the campus grounds. She rode the winds to New York City. She could access Remy's apartment from the rooftop of his apartment building. His door was locked but she was able to open it...given a few minutes. Or a minute longer than she would have liked, if she was being honest with herself. She found his apartment appointed similarly to his room at the school. It was largely empty. The furnishings had been draped in sheets. There was a stack of mail on his countertop. His plants had been watered and the apartment was clean. Other than that, there was no sign of life. She entered his bedroom and proceeded to the closet. Ororo opened the closet door and tapped the back wall. It rang hollow. She found she could slide a panel aside to reveal a false wall. The hidden storage inside the closet was empty as well. Ororo backed out of the closet. Remy had gone and taken his thieving gear with him. She was somewhat relieved to know that Remy, at the very least, was out in the world. That explained why he had chosen to absent himself and had failed to notify anyone as to his whereabouts. At the same time, she was disappointed to think that he had returned to his life of crime.

As she was closing up the apartment, she received an alert on her communications device. It had been tucked into the pocket of the shirt-dress she wore. She removed it and regarded the card-shaped communicator. It bore the Avengers emblem. Ororo wondered why it was still active. Curiouser still, why did she continue to carry it? Another thought to be pushed to the back of her mind. She was not far from Stark Tower. She decided to go.

She was somewhat disappointed to find that her security clearance had been reduced to Level Eight status. Ororo entertained the fleeting thought: _Do they really think that would stop me from going where I wanted to go?_ She shook her head, chastising herself. The elevator deposited her outside the conference room. When she entered, the people gathered there turned to look at her. Logan nodded.

"That was fast," he said. "Ya didn't even bother to suit up."

"I was all ready in the city," Ororo informed him. "What has happened?"

Rogue and Sam were also present, as were Steve and Tony. Kitty and Bobby both appeared on the large monitor behind their heads.

"We've got a situation," Logan said.

"A puzzle," Kitty continued as she typed something into a keyboard. A drawing appeared as a hologram above the conference table, etched in pale blue light. The image rotated slowly. It was a strange sort of squiggle, with a series of four-digit numbers written at intervals.

"What is that?" Ororo asked.

"A return address," Logan answered. "I think. You haven't seen Gambit, have you?"

Ororo paused. "No," she said, feeling a flash of concern. "I had only just been looking for him."

"He showed up this mornin'," Logan continued. "And dropped off this."

Ororo took the gray slip of paper he held out to her. She read the note and experienced a moment of shock when she reached the signature. "But this cannot be...," she breathed. "Sinister is dead. Burned by the Phoenix Force. His clones –."

"Clones!" Rogue exclaimed suddenly and pointed a finger at Tony. "He has _clones_!"

"I can hear perfectly well," Tony said and put his hand over his ear. "That is, I could until _now_."

"There was a clone," Rogue continued. "Here, in Stark Tower that night Ah went t'pick Remy up from Central Park! That explains how he was in two places at once, and your stupid security logs!"

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Logan asked.

"Are you saying that a clone walked in here and stole those files?" Steve asked Rogue.

Ororo was growing frustrated. "May I ask for someone to please appraise me of this situation."

"Gambit came in here and swiped a bunch of classified files," Tony said accusingly.

"He did _not_!" Rogue insisted.

"And dropped off this message this morning," Logan finished.

"You've got it all wrong!" Rogue cried.

"Rogue, please –," Steve began.

"Well, think about it," Bobby interrupted. "This morning, Logan himself said Gambit was like a different person."

"Are you sayin' I can't tell the difference between Gambit and some brain-dead clone?" Logan asked.

"This _is_ Gambit we're talkin' about," Sam commented. "It was probably an easy mistake."

Ororo fared him with a stare and Sam shrugged and gave an apologetic smile.

"It is true Sinister created clones of those we consider friends," she said, finally turning her disapproving stare away from Sam. "To throw us off our guard. He used them as canon fodder, to delay us. I believe...and I pray I am right, that the clones were not wholly sentient."

"What else can you tell us," Steve asked her. "About Sinister's base of operations, his weaponry?"

Ororo glanced down to stare blankly at the tabletop while she remembered. "He was below-ground," she said. "In a cavern carved out by Moloids. He had created a kingdom there."

"Moloids," Tony said and snapped his fingers. "Hey, didn't Murdock have a run-in with the Mole King not that long ago?"*

Steve nodded at him. "See if you can raise him."

Tony wheeled his chair away to the computer console.

"I was given to believe that Sinister's kingdom was destroyed," Ororo continued. "His weapons were the clones. He had created an army. That is, until the Phoenix Force arrived."

"Then we might surmise that his resources are significantly depleted," Steve said.

"Is ' _surmise_ ' similar to ' _assume_ '?" Bobby asked over the video relay. "Because you know what happens when we ' _ass_ ume', right? It makes an 'ass' out of–."

"Bobby!" Logan barked.

On the monitor, Bobby held up his hands in mock fear. "Oh, right. Forgot I have to act all adult in front of the Avengers."

Kitty directed their attention to the drawing hovering above the table. "We're trying to figure out what this means," she said.

"We think it's a map," Bobby said. "To wherever Sinister's hiding now. See, X marks the spot."

It was true, there was an X marked on the drawing.

"The numbers don't seem to have any meaning," Kitty said. "We figured if it's a map, they must be some measurement of distance. But it doesn't make any sense, not in yards, feet, miles, kilometers..."

The number closest to the X read 0613. The next point at the map was marked 0532. Steve was staring at the numbers, his chin clasped between his thumb and forefinger while he considered the drawing.

"No luck contacting Matt," Tony said, returning to the conversation. "He's not picking up his phone. Which is odd, since it's usually glued to his ear."

"Ah got an idea," Sam interjected, leaning over the drawing. He stuck his finger into the hologram. "What if the X was the school? And not Sinister's location?"

Ororo looked at the letter she still held in her hands. The note was addressed to Scott Summers at Xavier's School. As it would have been named when Jean was still alive. "And the X represents Xavier," Ororo murmured.

Kitty leaned forward. "Have we tried to run these numbers through some kind of decryption? Is it code for something?"

"No," Steve said finally. "It _is_ a form of measurement. It's time. Military time. A twenty-four hour clock. Logan, what time did you receive this message? Am I right guessing it was just after oh-six-hundred hours?"

Logan considered this, his brow furrowing. "I'd say around then, yeah."

"Six-thirteen," Kitty said. "The first number. The next is five-thirty-two. It took him forty-one minutes to get from point A to point B."

"That's about how long it takes to stumble home from Harry's," Bobby added.

"On foot," Logan said. "He was walking. Which means I could track him."

"Hold up," Kitty said and continued to type.

"I got it," Tony interrupted, holding up his portable handheld device. There was a flurry of typing as Kitty and Tony warred over who could complete the task quicker. They stared at one another like a pair of old west gunslingers.

Bobby unfolded a paper map of New York, blocking half the screen and interrupting Kitty's work.

"Bobby!" Kitty exclaimed, knocking the map aside and crumpling it.

A digital rendering of New York appeared above the conference table; the drawing superimposed over it.

"There we go," Tony said triumphantly.

Kitty's nose wrinkled. "If we put the X over the school, and the second point at Harry's Hideaway..." The drawing was enlarged so that point A fell on top of the school and point B was in the heart of Salem Center. "And if we figure the time elapsed...at that rate of speed..."

The rest of the drawing spanned across lower New York with the end point falling in New York City. The team regarded the map.

"Well, it looks like we won't have far t'go!" Rogue exclaimed and Tony winced. "We're sittin' right on top of him!"

* * *

*Daredevil #5-6


	23. Rises From the Ashes

**Sinister's London, Undiscovered Location**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Five and Poppet had to crawl over broken wreckage to reach her bedroom. Thick plumes of smoke had filled the upper portion of the corridor. The stairway to the lower floor was impassable. They could still hear residual explosions which sent tremors throughout the house. When at last they reached her room, Five scrambled forward to the window. She pushed it open. The flames from the hall suddenly sprang up, smoke and sparks were sucked into the room to light upon the bedclothes and carpet. Five choked and coughed, her eyes stung and watered. She reached behind her to take Poppet's hand and pull him towards the window. They both leapt from the opening.

Five used her telekinesis to guide them safely to the cobblestones. From the courtyard they could see that the roof of the manor was ablaze. They ran towards the stable. Poppet moved forward to seize the door when it suddenly exploded outwards. Five felt shards of wood pelt her shields. Poppet stumbled backwards as the remaining fragments of wood fell. Just inside the stable was a huge blond-haired man. He snarled at them, then crouched to spring.

"Sabretooth!" Five cried. She threw out her hand and just as Sabretooth leapt, a telekinetic bolt caught him in the chest, sending him flying backwards. He crashed into a second Sabretooth clone and the two fell snarling into the stable.

Five seized Poppet's wrist and was about to pull him away when a third Sabretooth sprung forward. He landed in a crouch on the cobblestones before them, his sharp teeth bared. Five prepared herself for another defensive maneuver when Sabretooth suddenly raised his head and sniffed the air. His attention veered from Poppet to something he had scented. He let out a terrible incoherent roar and dashed across the courtyard towards the house on all fours. The remaining two clones bolted after the first, their eyes alight with the fervor of the hunt. Poppet and Five looked at one another for a moment and then ran.

They passed through the stable and down the alleyway, Poppet taking the lead. They sprinted across the shade garden and through the gate out into the grassy lawn. From the gate was a long stretch of ground that rose up to a small hill. They dashed down a stone path towards the collection of small mud huts that clustered around the exterior of the manor walls. Poppet and Five came up against the first of the huts and ducked into it. Poppet peered out of the opening, protectively pushing Five back into the dark interior. Seeing no threat, he took her hand and together they stole to the next hut. They snuck around it, looking for the next safe place to hide. They were dangerously exposed on this stretch of land. As they passed the opening of the second hut, Poppet abruptly seized Five and thrust her into the doorway.

"Poppet!" she cried, but her voice was swallowed up by a sudden loud boom. It sounded like the firing of a cannon. Poppet dashed away. She moved to follow after him when she saw a gold and red blur fly past her hiding place. She gasped and withdrew. A second form streaked after the first with a boom.

"Sam!" Five said to herself and dashed to the doorway. She looked out to see Poppet running across an open expanse of ground. The airborne figure of Sam Guthrie, and what appeared to be Iron Man, flew after Poppet.

Poppet drew up short at the edge of a large pit and paused to glance over his shoulder at his pursuers. He picked up a stone from the ground and chucked it into the pit, then backed up a few paces. He dashed forward again and launched himself across the open space. Just as Iron Man streaked over the open void, something erupted from the pit. A long black tentacle whipped from the pit to wrap itself around Iron Man's torso. Five could see the propulsion jets in his hands and feet flare as he was pulled downwards. Something emerged from the pit. It was an enormous eyeless eel with a gaping mouth of slavering fangs. The tentacle was in fact a long tongue. Iron Man was pulled by the flailing appendage towards the monster's open maw. Cannonball blasted head-on towards the monster as it retreated back into its pit, taking Iron Man along with it. Sam blasted downwards, his pursuit of Poppet abandoned for the moment.

Five began to run from the hut towards Poppet. Suddenly, she felt a horrible tearing pain in her stomach. She gasped and folded over herself, clutching at her abdomen. She thought she had been stabbed, but when she looked at her hands, she saw they were free of blood. Five experienced another flash. In her mind's eye, she saw Three dropping to her knees, sliding free of the three blades that had impaled her through the stomach. Three fell backwards and Five cried out in agony. Then Three died.

Poppet picked Five up from where she had fallen. He helped her to her feet and she was half-dragged along towards an embankment. They struggled up it. When they reached the top, they saw a lake. Poppet immediately set towards it but Five paused to glance back at the manor. Half of the house was an inferno. She could see the flames springing from the roof and spewing from the windows. Five turned and ran after Poppet.

They followed the shoreline for a ways before coming to the river that fed the lake. Poppet hopped out onto the first of the rocks alongside the river which flowed from a dark crevice in the cavern wall. He turned to look back at Five and beckoned her forward. She started towards him and took his hand. As she did, she stumbled. Her entire body felt as if it had been seized by a powerful burning force. She could not even scream. Poppet held her as her body went rigid. In her mind, she could see a blinding white light. Finally, she was loosened from the terrible electrified grip. Her last sister, One, had been killed.

Jean drew a struggling breath as if coming up for air. She hung limply in Poppet's arms for a few moments before she managed to get her legs to obey. She stood on the rock, leaning her head against Poppet's shoulder. Another echoing boom prompted her to move. Poppet guided Jean towards the cave. At the entrance, he paused and held his forefinger to his lips, signaling Jean to be quiet. She nodded her understanding and they entered the cave.

It was nearly too dark to see. Jean stepped carefully after her guide, her hand resting on the small of his back as they walked through the darkness. They climbed upwards. Every so often, Poppet would pause and be still. Jean mimicked him. Beside their rocky path was a rushing river. Jean found herself soaked through, her bare feet aching with cold. From Poppet's mind, she could get a sense of how long it would take to reach their next destination. It would only be a few more minutes, but it seemed like hours. They crossed a natural stone bridge and took a steep switchback path. Jean could see a fissure of light and it was all she could do to not bolt for it.

Poppet pulled himself through the crack and held out his hand for Jean. He pulled her through and they both stood. Jean was disappointed to see that they were still below-ground, in a dark wet tunnel. Poppet still held her hand and he guided her down the tunnel. At a fork in the tunnels, he paused and looked to his right and left. He seemed to reach a decision and they started off down a path that had a large black X painted on the wall. The sludge rose above their ankles, and Jean was leery of where she stepped. There was all sorts of debris in the water. They came to a large round metal door. It had been torn open. They picked their way over broken trash as they passed through the portal. Once through, they were able to step up onto a sort of sidewalk that rose free of the sludge and water. Jean and Poppet continued to walk, their footfalls echoing in the long tubular corridor. At last they reached a steel door and Poppet pushed through it. They walked up a flight of cement stairs and turned down a tiled tunnel. This one was lit with flickering fluorescent light. Jean could hear the rumble of a passing subway train. Her heart leapt and she nearly burst into tears.

Though exhausted, they both ran up the next flight of steps, turned down another tunnel and into the real world. Poppet and Jean ran through the subway station and past a shocked ticket booth operator who stood and gazed at them open-mouthed. There was one last set of steps leading upwards. The walls to either side of them were plastered with signage. The yellow streetlights reflected on the wet pavement. The sky above was a dark blue-black. It was night.

_The sky!_ Jean stared up at it in wonder as they emerged from the subway station. They found themselves in the heart of New York City, not far from the museum and Central Park. All around them were tall buildings. A few cars passed on the nearby street, their tires hissing across wet pavement. A few white snowflakes fell from the nighttime sky. Jean was momentarily dumbstruck. Poppet once again took her hand and began to stride down the sidewalk with purpose. Jean was dragged along behind him.

"Poppet," she said. "Where are we going?"

"To de next place," he told her.

Jean attempted to draw him to a halt. She tugged on his arm. When she looked into his eyes, she could see a blind determination there. "Where is the next place?" she asked him.

"It's where it is," Poppet told her and pulled her forward. Jean staggered after him.

"Poppet, stop," she told him. "Stop!"

He continued to drag her behind him.

"Did His Majesty tell you to take me to this place?" she asked and allowed herself to be lead.

Poppet didn't answer. He had been told what to do and was following orders. He had little choice but to obey. Jean darted forward and put herself into Poppet's path. "Wait!" she said, trying to stay him. "Just wait a moment! I – Poppet, I'm so tired. My feet are so cold. We have to stop for a bit, please."

Poppet paused, his expression was confused. She put her hands against his chest. "Please, let's just rest. Okay? Can we rest somewhere? Then we can go to the place. Right after, I promise."

He hesitated. He seemed torn and he rocked from one foot to the other. Jean hoped to give herself a little time to either convince Poppet not to follow the instructions he'd been given, or to reprogram his mind. But she would hate to have to do that to him.

"Can you take me someplace warm?" Jean pleaded. "Someplace safe?"

Poppet reluctantly gave in. He nodded slowly. She smiled with relief. They continued at a slower pace. They passed 24-hour drugstores and restaurants. There were few people on the street, it was very early in the morning. Jean and Poppet must have appeared very strange, with Jean in her torn and filthy gown and tangled red locks. Poppet too was a mess and dressed in strange clothing. Like Jean, his feet were bare. Jean altered their appearances to the passers-by using her telepathy. Jean shivered with cold and followed after Poppet. They walked in silence. Jean was buffered by the eight-million minds around her. She withdrew into herself, feeling overwhelmed.

Poppet came to a halt. When Jean looked up, she saw they were standing in front of an apartment building.

"In here?" she asked.

Poppet nodded and they moved through the revolving doors and into the lobby. It was bright and blessedly warm. A security guard glanced up at them from his desk, his face was illuminated by the glow of his computer monitor. Poppet stood and looked around absently.

"Do you need some help?" the guard asked him.

Jean didn't know what to answer, but Poppet turned to the guard and pointed upwards at the ceiling. The guard seemed to understand this and nodded. "Ah," he said and raised his brows. "Forgot your elevator key?"

Poppet grinned and nodded.

The guard glanced at Jean and then back to Poppet. The guard smiled to himself as he looked down at his computer. He said with a smile in his voice: "Go on ahead, Mr. LeBeau. Elevator's open. You and your guest have a good evening."

Jean was confused, but followed after Poppet to the elevator. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the car as it rose upwards. When the doors reopened, they stepped off into the hall and they proceeded towards a door. Poppet turned the doorknob to find it locked. He looked at Jean. Jean nodded at him and used her telekinesis to unlock and open the door. They passed into the apartment. It was empty save for a few cloth-draped pieces of furniture. Jean closed and relocked the door. When she turned, she put her hands to her aching skull and let her telepathic illusion drop. She sighed and tried to relax. Poppet had wandered into the middle of the apartment, looking around. Jean walked towards him.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said tiredly and rested her forehead against his chest. Poppet put his arms around her.

She looked up into his face. He smiled at her. " _C'est bien, ma chère_ ," he said quietly.

There was a sudden sharp sound of shattering glass and Jean flinched. Poppet's head snapped to the side and he began to fall. Jean saw a spray of red splatter across the white fabric covering the couch. For an instant she could not comprehend what had happened. She caught at Poppet's arms as he collapsed bonelessly to the rug. Jean was pulled after him. She looked with shock and horror into his blank staring eyes. Jean heard herself scream. She shook him by the shoulders with growing despair as tears began to blur her vision. She called his name over and over again, but it was useless. The bullet had killed Poppet instantly. He was dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

Next week: the X-Men descend to Hades.


	24. Green Eyed Monster

**The Morlock Tunnels, New York City, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

"When Ah joined you Avengers, Ah thought mah days of traipsin' through sewers were over," Rogue complained. A fat drop of water landed on her forehead and she pulled her hood up over her hair.

"This is an access tunnel, not a sewer," Iron Man observed. "If this was a sewer, we'd likely all asphyxiate on high levels of hydrogen sulfide."

"Thanks, Mr. Wizard," Rogue said sarcastically.

"My friends," Storm said with a hint of impatience as she raised her hand, "may we have silence, please?"

Both Rogue and Iron Man were bringing up the rear of the party. Storm and Cannonball set the pace before them. Wolverine and Captain America took point. They were below the streets of New York in a stretch of tunnels previously inhabited by the Morlocks. The tunnels had flooded with East River water at one point and now were filled with a mix of mud and debris.

"Can you pick up anything?" Cap asked Wolverine as the shorter man crouched. Cap signaled and the party came to a halt.

"Not a thing," Wolverine said, searching for a familiar scent. "Just mud and wet."

Cap examined the map with a flashlight. "We should be approaching the next checkpoint."

Wolverine nodded at the dark stretch of tunnel up ahead. "Must be that door," he said, though no one save him could see it in the darkness.

The group approached a large round steel door. At its center was a wheel. Wolverine grasped it and turned. The wheel refused to move.

"It doesn't look like it's been used in awhile," Wolverine said.

"Allow me," Iron Man said and strode forward. There was a tearing and rending of metal as he grasped the door and pulled. It tore free from the jamb. A rush of sludge and filth poured through the opening, rising up past their ankles.

"Lovely," Iron Man said looking down at his boots.

Wolverine moved through the opening and then paused. "I got somethin'," he said and his nostrils flared.

Storm moved up to stand behind him. "What is it?" she asked.

"Smells like the Cajun," Wolverine said. "Stinks like fear."

"Why would a clone be frightened?" Storm asked, a touch of anxiety fluttered in her chest. She squelched it.

Wolverine shook his head from side to side. "Let's go," he said and moved forward. Now that he had a scent, they moved more quickly though they had to wade through ankle deep water. Wolverine stepped up onto a chunk of broken concrete and paused. He cast about in the darkness and found an empty water bottle. Wolverine let the refuse drop back into the water and pressed onwards. At a fork in the tunnels he paused again.

"There's somethin' else," he said. "Moloid, I think. It went this way." He pointed into the darkness.

Captain America shown the flashlight down the tunnel. A few rats scattered as the light fell upon them. "The next checkpoint it at the next left turn. We're getting close."

Wolverine started off in the direction Cap had indicated. The rest followed. Wolverine walked down the tunnel, then drew up short and backed up a few paces.

"What's that?" Cannonball asked, pointing at a small speck of light set in the wall.

Storm approached to see a glowing gemstone. "A marker of some kind," she said. She could feel a cool wind blowing up from below. Storm crouched and found a narrow crack in the tunnel wall. Her apprehension grew. She knew this was the next point on the map, and that she would have to crawl through this narrow place.

"You all right, darlin'?" Wolverine asked.

Irritation flashed through Storm like lightning, chasing her fear away. "Of course," she said and crawled through the opening as quickly as she could, to spare herself from the crushing weight of her claustrophobia. For a moment she felt as if the earth had swallowed her. She could feel the scrape of the stone walls pressing down on either side. Then suddenly, she was free and standing in an open space. She drew a bracing breath.

Wolverine was quick to follow and she had to move aside to make room for the remainder of the party. One by one, they each passed through the gap.

"It's black as pitch in here," Rogue said. "Don't we got any more flashlights?"

"How's this?" Iron Man said and suddenly, a bright light shown from his chest.

Rogue blinked in the dazzling glare and raised her hand to block the light. "You've blinded me, ya ninny!"

"Would you _please_ lower your voice a few decibels?" Iron Man said, his voice echoing in the chamber.

Rogue was about to retort, but as she lowered her hand, she blinked in confusion at something just above Iron Man's head. "What in tarnation – ?" she began and then screamed as something leapt from the shadows to fall upon her.

"What the devil?" Iron Man said as a snarling, long-limbed creature began tearing at Rogue's cloak. The creature let out sharp chirps and snarls.

"Get it offa me!" Rogue cried as the Moloid tried to bite her. She forced it's head back with the heel of her hand. Wolverine leapt and Rogue hit the ground, the breath knocked from her body. The creature sprung away to grab at Cannonball. His arms windmilled in a panic. Captain America swung his shield and struck the thing with a solid ringing sound. The Moloid went flying off into the darkness.

The resulting silence was deafening as the small group stood on alert, anticipating another attack.

"Well that was –," Iron Man began.

From within the cave came a long, loud moan of some enormous beast. The chamber echoed with its roar. The sound faded into the darkness.

Storm stared at Iron Man, her eyes shining faintly, daring him to speak another word. His mouth closed slowly.

"Let us not speak unless absolutely necessary," Storm decreed.

Wolverine nodded, then turned and walked into the darkness. They came to a precipice which overlooked a path that descended to a rushing river. They followed it downwards. A stone bridge took them to the other side of the river. The party continued in silence down the rocky path. A fine mist hung in the air from the turbulent river. Something cracked up in the path ahead and a rock tumbled free to smash itself into the river. The party drew up short as something clawed its way through the hole in the wall. It was an enormous furry monstrosity with a hideous nose of slimy pink tentacles. It dug with long sharp claws, its nose seeking blindly. They could hear the sound of its panting and smell its fetid breath. Wolverine loosed his claws and crouched as the thing fully blocked their path. Storm called upon a wind and rose into the air. Lightning cracked around her raised hands and the light flashed along the cavern walls. The creature recoiled in the bright light. Iron Man joined her in the air and lowered the mask of his helmet to cover his face. He nodded at her and together they blasted the mole creature with bright light. It shrank back with a squeal and retreated into its hole.

"We shall scout up ahead," Storm told her colleagues. She gestured for Iron Man to follow. The pair flew down the length of the tunnel. The light grew substantially brighter. They found no other obstacles or monsters to delay them, and returned to the party to report the news. When they regrouped they continued downwards until at last they came to a lake. Wolverine and Captain America climbed the embankment, keeping low until they reached the summit. They conferred with one another briefly and returned to the shore.

"There's a manor in the valley below," Cap reported. He sketched it out in the wet sand with a stick. "Surrounded by a wall. There is an open expanse of ground with little cover. A few small huts."

"A main entry here," Wolverine said and indicated on Cap's drawing. "And a side gate here. I can't tell if there's another entrance on the opposite side."

"We'll split into pairs," Cap said. "Storm, you and I will take the west gate. You're on point. I want this done quietly until we can assess the situation inside the manor. Wolverine, Rogue, you go east. Cannonball, Iron Man, I want you two as backup. If something goes wrong, we'll need you as reinforcements. Make sure nothing comes out of that house."

Storm raised a mist from the nearby lake to create some ground cover. With their marching orders, they split up and began to move down the valley and towards the manor.

~ oOo ~

Wolverine and Rogue crept along the outside wall heading towards the main gate they had spotted from the embankment. The gate was closed and appeared solid. They passed it and continued down the wall. At the rear of the complex, they came upon a rubbish pile mostly composed of moldy straw. There was a wooden door in the wall and a two-wheeled barrow used for moving refuse in and out of the building. They found that the door was barred from the inside. Wolverine peered through the small square window and through a wrought iron grate. He saw no one inside. Wolverine stabbed his claws through the door and slashed them upwards, knocking free the wooden bar on the opposite side of the door. He pushed it open and the bar scraped across the ground.

They were now in an alley. A few rubbish bins sat just inside the door; from the smell of them it seemed it was kitchen scraps. The alley took them to a door in the manor's inner wall. The pair passed through it into a darkened hall. Wolverine paused and scented the air.

"Sinister," he growled softly.

"Any sign of Jean?" Rogue whispered.

Wolverine considered. "Faint..."

They passed through the corridor. The lights along its length were dimmed. They came to another door. Wolverine opened it to a more expansive space, a warmly appointed hallway. There were doors at intervals all along the hall. The doors were closed. There was another opening in the hall leading to a room painted in soft yellow. They proceeded towards it silently. As they neared the yellow room, Wolverine increased his pace until he was nearly running. Rogue tried to follow behind as quickly and silently as possible. Wolverine had come to a halt at the center of the opening, standing frozen as he stared into the room. Rogue came up behind him and turned.

A woman was sitting upon a settee in front of a fireplace, her back to them. Her red hair had been pulled up to a knot at the back of her head. As Rogue and Wolverine stood, her head turned slowly on her long elegant neck. They saw her face in profile. It was serene and expressionless.

Wolverine took a step into the room.

"Jean?" he asked.

The woman slowly stood and turned, her long silk gown sweeping gently across the area rug. She looked upon Wolverine blankly.

"Jeannie?" Wolverine repeated and took another step forward.

Just then, the mullioned window to their right exploded inwards. Wolverine and Rogue fell back defensively as they saw what could only be Sabretooth leaping into the room. There was a split second as both Sabretooth and Wolverine tensed. The next instant they both sprang to meet one another mid-air in a flurry of animal snarling.

Rogue darted forward to seize Jean by the wrist. "Let's go, sugah!" she said and tugged at the woman's arm.

The woman refused to budge. She instead raised her opposite arm in a languid gesture. The shards of glass littering the floor trembled and then rose into the air. Rogue watched the shards hovering in the air before turning her gaze back to Jean. The woman's green eyes were like seaglass; flat, softly unfocused, and completely without emotion.

"Wolverine!" Rogue cried and threw herself away from Jean to hide behind he settee. Glass shards whipped through the air, shredding everything in their path. Rogue cried out and protected her face with her raised arms. Wolverine and Sabretooth crashed down beside her to roll across the carpet, heedless of the flying glass that flayed flesh from their bodies. Rogue launched herself at Sabretooth, her bare hand coming to clamp upon the man's bloody arm.

Sabretooth rose up and Rogue threw her other arm around his neck, holding on to the burly man and using him to shield her body from the flying glass. She could hear more crashing and snarling. Two more Sabretooth clones leapt through the window. By now, pieces of furniture were rising up from the floor the throw themselves at the walls. The debris joined the spinning tornado of glass, pummeling them all save the woman standing at the eye of the storm. The fire burst from the fireplace. Flames encircled the woman who stood so still, her face devoid of any expression.

Rogue was battered by the flying glass and debris, but even as she was cut and clubbed and burned the healing factor she'd ripped from Sabretooth's now still form repaired the damage. One of the clones leapt upon her and she used her newfound strength to throw the man across the room to strike a wall. She moved in on the woman at the center of the room, buffered by fragments of furniture and glass.

"Jean!" she shouted. "Stop! Stop, it's me! We're here ta help you!"

A gout of flame ripped the air from her lungs and she collapsed onto the smoldering rug. From the corner of her eye she saw the woman's hand open. A poker from the fireplace was summoned towards Jean's outstretched hand. Rogue could see the woman's slippered feet approaching. Rogue fell back. The woman gestured and the poker raised above her head, the point of it aimed towards Rogue's heart, seeking to impale her to the floorboards.

The woman's fingers twitched and the poker began to fly towards Rogue. Three long claws sprouted from Jean's midsection. Her face remained hard and blank even as she dropped to her knees. The poker fell harmlessly to the ground with a clatter. The glass shards, wooden fragments, and bursts of flame dropped to the floor as well. Wolverine withdrew his claws from Jean's back and retreated as she fell backwards onto the floor.

"Mah god!" Rogue cried.

There was a long deep-throated growl. The trio of Sabretooths were rousing themselves. Rogue met Wolverine's eyes briefly, but they were as empty of human emotion as the clone lying dead at his feet. The look in his eyes was instead wild with animalistic fury. Rogue began to crawl backwards, her hands sliced by broken glass.

For a moment all was still as the feral men readied themselves to fight. Then an explosion tore through the house and the walls collapsed upon them all.

* * *

Next time: What Storm finds in Sinister's London.


	25. Mayday

**Sinister's London, Beneath New York City, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

When Remy was young, younger than he was now and living on the streets of New Orleans, he used to comb through the garbage bins behind restaurants and shops for things to salvage or eat. He'd been picking through the trash on a particularly hot and humid day when he saw a rat next to a dumpster. He thought it was asleep because it was laying on its side and Remy could see that it was breathing. Except that it was daylight and the middle of an alley was a strange place for a rat to take a nap. Remy approached the rat and looked down at it. He nudged it with the toe of his sneaker. That's when he saw that the rat was not asleep at all, but quite dead. The movement he'd seen was that of the thousands of squirming white maggots exposed when he nudged the corpse with his foot.

The image of the maggot-filled rat came to his mind as he looked at the pale man's body as it lay sprawled before him. Although the corpse seemed a carved-out husk, there was no blood or flesh or innards as one would expect inside a body. As Remy watched, white flesh-like tendrils squirmed about and the corpse twitched and shuddered. It was a horrifying sight.

Remy lay at the bottom of a crater which was fast filling with mud. Above him was crumbling earth, broken tiles, wooden beams, pipes, and glass. The ceiling and roof above had exploded outward, revealing an expanse of the cavern above. Burning fabric and paper fluttered through the air. Remy pulled himself to his feet and began to crawl upwards and away from the wriggling corpse behind him. Broken debris sliced his hands and knees as he scrambled for purchase on the crumbling walls. He at last made it to the top of the crater. In those last few inches he climbed towards freedom, he slipped on the fractured marble tiles. He saw his hands were covered in blood.

When he emerged from the crater, he saw that the blood was not his own. There was a body lying on the tiles, her head tilted at a terrible angle, her eyes empty and staring. It was the red-haired woman he had seen earlier. The remains of a crystal chandelier had smashed down upon her, slicing her through in dozens of places. Remy shuddered. The explosion he caused had killed her.

Remy struggled to his feet and began to stagger down what remained of the main hall. His nose caught the rotten egg hint of leaking gas. He walked as quickly as he could, reeling like a drunk on shaking legs. He bore down on a pair of double doors at the end of the hall. He fell upon the doors, his hands gripping the door handles. Remy pulled himself to his feet and opened the door. He tumbled through the opening and fell back onto the door to shut it.

Before the door could fall shut, there was a sound like thunderclap and a flash of bright white light, followed by a great rushing _whoomp!_ as the air in the hall ignited in a great ball of flame. The blast launched Remy into the room. The door ripped from its hinges to fall around him in fragmented pieces. The world was filled with smoke and swirling dust as residual explosions rocked the house. But Remy could not hear it. His ears were filled with a terrible ringing from the explosion. His left eardrum was shattered and blood ran down the side of his face.

He coughed and crawled forward across the floor. He could feel the heat of flame at his back. The blaze sucked the oxygen from the room, left his eyes and mouth dry as dust. Remy choked and continued to crawl across the floorboards. Behind him, flames were skittering across the floor, falling all around him and licking at the curtains and rug. Remy looked up to search for a means of escape. He was in a great long room. Across one expanse of wall was a stained glass window of red, the mullions set in a pattern of diamonds. At the far end of the room was a huge marble fireplace. Set before it was a great long table with chairs down either side. There was a man seated at the head of the table, sitting peacefully as if they were not surrounded by the flames of Hell. He stood slowly and Remy made a gasping sob of a sound, though he was deaf to his own cry. There was no escape from the pale man.

The pale man began towards him, his eyes full of hot menace. He spoke and Remy shook his head from side to side, unable to hear the man's words. Remy staggered to his feet, fell, and scrambled on all fours to get away from the horrible man. The man seized him by the back of his jacket, spun him around and backhanded him across the face. For a moment, Remy blacked out. He blinked frantically as his vision returned and he realized he was being dragged towards the stained glass window. The pale man held Remy up to his face. His expression was one of pure hatred. He shouted and shook Remy by the front of his coat, but Remy could only hear the muffled exclamations as if they came through water. Then the man flung him aside and Remy crashed through the window.

He might have called out in surprise and pain as he flew through the air. His head struck against something hard and unforgiving and he fell forward to land face down in a pool of green water. Remy nearly lost consciousness again and as he drew a breath he sucked in a lungful off brackish water. He coughed spasmodically but found he couldn't rise. His limbs would not obey. Suddenly, he was pulled upwards by the back of his coat. He coughed and vomited green water, his arms flailed helplessly at the person who held him. When he reopened his eyes, he stared into the face of a woman. It was a dark-skinned woman with blank white eyes and bright white hair. Her eyes were wide in shock, and her mouth moved to issue a curse or exclamation of surprise.

There was a flurry of motion over her shoulder and she turned her head. Remy saw the pale man falling through the window, borne to the ground by a woman dressed all in green and white. The man's head struck the ground with such a force that his skull smashed like an empty clay jar, his neck canted sharply to the side. The woman fell upon him, and when she looked up, Remy could see her green eyes were wild beneath the hood of her cloak. Her mouth was tight in a rictus grin, sharp teeth bared. When she stood, he saw her fingers ended in claws. Remy spasmed, pulled free of the white-haired woman's grasp as he stumbled backwards into the fountain. Another man dropped from the broken window, this one looking as animal-like as the woman. He had claws springing from the knuckles of each fist. The animal-man started towards Remy with intent purpose.

Remy scrambled free of the fountain and tried to run. The man seized him from behind, holding him by the back of his neck. Remy saw the sharp claws from the corner of his eye. He shouted in pain and fear as he was pressed downwards onto his knees. He knew then that he was going to die. All resistance leaked from his body and he dropped bonelessly, his body still held upright by the man's powerful grip. He closed his eyes and awaited the final strike.

He had one last thought: _I'll see Etienne again soon. I hope he doesn't hate me for getting him killed._

A heartbeat passed, and then another. Remy wondered if time hadn't stood still. He reluctantly opened his eyes. He could see flames falling from the sky. All around him were stone walls, illuminated by the burning house behind him. And then Remy saw stars. Two stars, and they were coming towards him. One was bright, on a shining curved surface striped red and white. The other was cut in two, stained with blood, and on the chest of Captain America.

 _I'm hallucinating,_ Remy thought. He felt the pressure on his neck release and he fell forward. He caught himself on his hands and tried to push himself upright. He struggled towards the striding figure of Captain America. He didn't seem like a hallucination, he seemed so real.

 _He's a hero. He can save me from these monsters,_ Remy thought. He opened his mouth to speak. He thought he managed to croak out a plea for help. But then he collapsed and rolled onto his back. He stared upwards, the bright orange light from the fire danced across the cavern ceiling far overhead. A dark figure looked down at him, but he couldn't make out distinct shapes. It was all fading into a blur.

 _My auntie has a rooster named for your arch-enemy_ , Remy told Captain America. _It's a Rhode Island Red, and as mean as they come._

Then the world went black.

~ oOo ~

When Storm spied the clone of her deceased friend, Jean Grey, she started towards her, heedless of Captain America's muffled shout of warning. As Jean turned, Storm extended a beseeching hand in her direction. Jean was alone in a hall, dressed in a dark purple gown, with every appearance of looking lost and confused. When Jean saw Storm coming towards her, she gasped and her eyes grew wide.

"Jean, my friend," Storm whispered. She could almost not bear to believe it. Her voice was swallowed up by the hushed stillness of the manor.

Jean withdrew, clutched her skirts in one hand, and ran from Storm down the corridor. Storm followed her, Captain America not far behind. The red-headed woman pulled open a door and passed through it. The door slammed behind her. Storm fell upon the door and pulled it open. She dashed through to find herself in a great glass atrium. There were enclosures on all sides, great cases containing tropical plants, the glass fogged with condensation. Storm looked around and saw a flash of purple and red turning a corner. She began after her when Cap seized her by the arm.

"Wait!" he called and suddenly, figures were emerging from either side. Clones of Sinister, dressed in livery and armed with high-tech weaponry that at the same time appeared quaintly arcane. The clones fired their weapons and Cap pulled Storm back behind the protection of his shield. Together they ran for cover as the weapons blasted at them. Storm could feel the sting of the blasts even as they reflected off of Cap's shield. The lethal bolts rebounded to shatter the walls of glass.

They encountered the Jean-clone as they rounded a corner. She stood before them on the flagstone path between two glass cases. She raised her arms and there was a rending of metal. The cases exploded in a shower of shards and the metal supports tore free. One metal rail was flung forward, then the next. Storm could see the metal whipping through the air in her direction. Their destination: to decapitate both Storm and Captain America as they stood.

Suddenly there was a terrible explosion. Storm and Cap were thrown forward and the metal was caught up in the blast to fly upwards and smash through the atrium ceiling. They scrambled forward as the wall behind them began to crumble in a growing cloud of dust and debris. Storm commanded the winds to deliver her and buffer the blast. She turned in the air, searching below for the clone of her former friend. Her heart burned in anguish. Again she would have to face the specter of the woman who was like a sister to her, as she had when Sinister first used Jean's form as a receptacle for the Phoenix Force. Again, Storm would be pitted against her.*

Storm could spy the impostor below, rising from where she had been thrown by the blast. The clone's head turned, her eyes snapping to Storm's own. Storm saw the clone's face. In her gaze Storm saw malice and disgust. Storm felt a rising fury well within her chest. She despised Sinister and all his horrible works, to use her friend's likeness in such a way to cause nothing but pain and grief.

Storm drew a charge of electric power towards her, just as Captain America shouted: "Storm! Don't! The gas –!"

Then there was a flash of lightning, a blinding white light and a detonation that launched her tumbling through the air. Storm was thrown through the atrium ceiling, spinning head over heels as the fiery blast carried her towards the cavern ceiling. She was disoriented, faint, and stunned by the blast. She began to fall.

The breath was knocked from her as she was suddenly caught mid-air by strong arms. She looked around to see that she had been snatched from the air by Iron Man. He banked sharply and began to carry her towards the earth. The stench coming off of him was enough to revive her senses. He landed in a crouch and delivered her to the ground. She stood shakily on damp cobblestones within a small shaded alcove. Storm was bracing herself on Iron Man's shoulder when she realized her hand burned painfully.

She let out a yelp and released Iron Man's shoulder. Her hand was stinging in pain.

"It's probably the digestive fluids from that subterranean invertebrate monstrosity," he said apologetically. Storm had no idea what he was talking about. Now that she was on the ground, she could see that the finish on his armor was dulled and burning away. He was covered in a mucus-like coating that stank like rotting flesh.

There was a fountain nearby and she dunked her burning hand into the greenish water. She exhaled in pain.

"Captain America –!" she began.

"Cannonball is on it," Iron Man told her.

From nearby came a shattering of glass. Storm looked up to see a small figure come flying through the red stained-glass window. She withdrew as the figure crashed against the center pillar in the fountain to fall face-down into the stagnant water. She saw that the figure was slight like a child. He or she was stunned by the brief flight through the air and unable to pull free from the water. Storm reached down and seized the figure, drawing him from the fountain. For a moment, his head rolled back on his shoulders and Storm feared he was dead. Then he coughed and water spewed from his mouth and nose. Long hair was plastered wetly against his face. His eyelids fluttered open and then his eyes rolled back in his head. Storm gasped and nearly dropped the boy as if he had seared her hands.

"By the Goddess!" she exclaimed. The boy's eyes were recognizable and distinct as no other person's eyes could be.

The boy's black and red eyes focused on her for a moment and his face was blank with incomprehension. She wanted to throw the child from her. Her entire being revolted at the sight. It was a boy version of her friend Remy. Sinister had made something unconscionable; a clone of a child. Storm felt stunned and horrified. When the boy pulled away to fall into the fountain, she stood in petrified horror. There was a smashing of glass and when she turned it was to see Rogue falling from the window. One of Sinister's clones was held in her grip. His head smashed upon the cobblestones. When Rogue rose, Storm saw the young woman had seemingly absorbed the powers of the feral mutant Sabretooth. Her eyes were wild for a moment, and then she blinked. She looked with shock and surprise as the boy stumbled away from the fountain. Wolverine dropped from the window as well. His uniform was ripped and bloodied. The cowl had been torn from his face. His face itself was a mask of animalistic rage. He had seen the child-clone too. Wolverine strode forward. He brushed past Storm and grabbed the clone by the back of the neck.

The boy made a gagging sound and was forced to his knees.

Wolverine looked over his shoulder at Storm. "Look away," he growled.

Storm could not. She felt rooted to the spot. Wolverine's fist raised, the light of the fire behind them glinted on his adamantium claws. The child cried out in pain and fear. The sound sent a jolt through Storm and she gasped.

"Logan, stop!" she heard herself cry.

The boy spoke: " _I'm sorry, Et!_ "

Wolverine faltered. There was another blast and Storm instinctively ducked. But the blast was not another explosion, but her teammate Cannonball. Cannonball dropped from the sky with Captain America, the older man's arm slung across his shoulders. Cap fell the last few feet to land in the courtyard. When he rose from his crouch, he began towards Wolverine who still held the child limply in his grasp. Wolverine released the child-clone and it staggered forward.

" _M'aidez, m'aidez!_ " the boy cried out in a raw voice and reached out towards Cap. To the English ear, his plea sounded as: " _Mayday, mayday!_ "

The clone collapsed and fell onto his back.

Storm approached slowly. She stood to lean over the boy. "Remy?" she inquired, fearfully realizing that this child-clone could somehow be her friend.

His eyelids fluttered. Then he mumbled something about a chicken and lapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *

_m'aidez –_ help me

*Uncanny X-Men #17 - Storm is attacked by one of Sinister's Madelyne Pryor clones.

Next time: Gambit has an unexpected visitor and is less than hospitable to his guest.


	26. The One About The Lawyer

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Six Weeks Ago**

Gambit slowly reached out a hand for the switch to turn on the overhead light, but there was no mistaking what he had seen even in the dim light that fell through his apartment windows. There was a dead body in his living room, and that body looked remarkably like himself. Gambit took a hesitant step forward to look at the corpse. The man had been shot in the head. His eyes were closed and he had a vaguely peaceful expression on his face. There was a large pool of blood surrounding his head and a spray of red across the couch.

Gambit was so stupefied by the sight, it barely registered with him that he should be keeping an eye out for the shooter. That was when one of the windows exploded inwards. Gambit turned to see a man come flying through the window feet first to land on the floor. The attacker slid in the pool of blood and fell, landing on his hip.

"Not my best entrance ever –," said Daredevil as he lay on the ground. Then, realizing he was sprawled in a pool of blood, he said: "What the –!"

Gambit had still been holding his cell phone as he had entered the room, and now it dropped to the floor forgotten. Gambit leapt upon Daredevil and bore him to the ground. Gambit's hands wrapped around the man's throat. Gambit proceeded to bang Daredevil's head against the floor repeatedly. Daredevil responded by pressing one hand against Gambit's face while the other tried to pry Gambit's fingers from around his throat.

"Gaah!" Daredevil snarled.

"Mmph!" Gambit responded as Daredevil pressed his hand against Gambit's mouth. Gambit bit the fleshy part of Daredevil's palm.

"Owwah!" Daredevil's head made one last thump upon the floorboards when he twisted beneath Gambit to send the thief sprawling onto his back.

The two men grappled across the floor in the most undignified tangle of arms and legs. The gun behind Gambit's back fell free of his belt and Daredevil had enough sense to kick it across the floor where it span out of reach. Gambit took advantage of the opportunity to put his knee in Daredevil's midsection.

"Uhmph!" Daredevil said, and now Gambit had rolled atop of him again. Gambit raised his fist intending on putting it right in Daredevil's face when Daredevil threw himself forward. Gambit landed flat on his back.

Daredevil now had a fistful of Gambit's hair and Gambit was crying: " _Aïe!_ Let go'a my hair, _imbecile!_ "

"Gambit?" Daredevil asked, momentarily perplexed as he recognized the voice. Gambit delivered him an open-handed slap across the face.

Daredevil seized Gambit's wrist and pinned him to the floorboards. "Stop it!" Daredevil said, even as Gambit tried to wriggle out from beneath him. "I'll let you go if you – just – quit –!"

Gambit head-butted him. Daredevil recoiled, holding both hands to his bleeding nose. Gambit rolled around on the floor clutching his forehead and moaning.

"I thing you brode by dose!" Daredevil said, cupping a hand over his injury.

"Serves ya right, ya red-devil bastard!" Gambit said, sitting up and making a half-hearted attempt to kick out at Daredevil.

Daredevil skittered backwards and out of reach. He wiped his forearm under his nose, leaving a smear of blood across his cheek. "I didn't know it was you!"

"Who de heck else would I be?" Gambit exclaimed.

"Last I knew, you tagged along with the X-Men tossing around playing cards. You weren't hanging out with gang members _and shooting guns_!" Daredevil exclaimed and gestured in the direction of the firearm. "Not to mention – did you quit smoking?"

"What does that have'ta do wit' –!"

"And eating meat...and...carbs –?" Now Daredevil sounded confused as he processed the memory of Gambit's scent.

"I don't even want t'know why you know that, you freakin' weirdo," Gambit snapped.

"Well, you smelled different," Daredevil tried to wriggle his nose and then made a sound of pain and clutched his face. "Asshole! You _did_ break my nose!"

"You broke my teeth! Beat de crap outta me, smashed up my apartment, and _I'm_ de a-hole?" Gambit shouted.

"I thought you were one of the Juárez crew!" Daredevil responded. "And by the way, your apartment would be a lot nicer if there wasn't a _dead body_ in it!"

"He's not part of de usual décor," Gambit responded and looked over at the corpse.

Daredevil climbed to his feet. He offered a hand to help Gambit up, and Gambit slapped it aside with a snarl of disgust. After a moment, Gambit stood as well.

"Dis is a fine kettle of fish," Gambit remarked to no one in particular.

"He's been shot," Daredevil said, leaning close to the corpse.

"Oh, y'don't say!" Gambit snapped. "Any more conclusions, Sherlock?"

Daredevil righted and turned to Gambit, his mouth a disapproving line. "Well, maybe we should do something about the woman in your bedroom." Daredevil pointed towards the open door to Gambit's room. The blind man had sensed a figure standing in the doorway with his radar-sense, smelled the tang of her blood in the air, and heard her rapid heartbeat.

Gambit turned to look in the direction Daredevil pointed, then turned back to face his adversary. "Very funny, _mon brave._ You made me look."

Daredevil let his arm drop. "There is a woman standing _right there,_ " Daredevil told him in a slow voice, as if he were speaking to someone very stupid. Daredevil took out his cellphone from the pouch at his waist. "I'm calling someone...she's been hurt."

Gambit slapped Daredevil's phone from his hand and it fell to the floor with a clatter. "I got eyes in my head, and I can see fo' myself there ain't no woman standin' there. And I hear tell you was plain crazy, but now I can see dat for myself, too!"

Daredevil seized Gambit by the shoulders and turned him around to face the door. "You mean to tell me that you can't see a woman standing there? Right there? That one that's bleeding on your floor?"

Gambit opened his mouth to berate Daredevil further when he realized he could see the falling droplets of blood leaving a small puddle on his floor. He closed his mouth and blinked. And then a woman materialized from the thin air.

"Mother of _pearl_!" Gambit exclaimed. There was a woman in a floor-length purple gown standing in the open doorway of his bedroom. The dress was torn and filthy, stained from the hem up and torn at the bodice. Her pale skin was smeared with dirt and black soot, her throat scratched, and her long red hair a tangle around her bare shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot and her complexion blotchy. It appeared she had been crying. Most shocking, Gambit recognized her. For a moment, his vision blurred and he was overwhelmed by one of his flashes; the sensation of vertigo was so strong, he put out an arm for balance and was caught by Daredevil.

Gambit pulled himself free and stared open-mouthed at the vision of Jean Grey standing before him. Then he shouted and reached for his playing cards. "Get back, _Diable_!" he called and charged the fanned deck he held in his hands.

Jean raised her hands, looking surprised. "N-no!" she began.

Daredevil seized Gambit's wrist. "What de hell!" Gambit exclaimed and tried to pull his hand free. "You wanna blow us bot' t'kingdom come?"

"I can't let you blow that woman up!" Daredevil shouted.

"That ain't no woman! That's one of Sinister's clones!" Gambit responded, trying to turn his attention back on Jean.

"Please, stop!" Jean cried and stepped into the room.

"Oh, we dead now," Gambit said with resignation.

"I promise, I'm not going to kill you," Jean said, her hands still raised in supplication. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Please, stop fighting! Both of you."

When Gambit failed to release his cards and Daredevil refused to let go of Gambit's arm, Jean sighed and her head drooped. "All right, you asked for it," she said. She casually raised her arms and both Gambit and Daredevil flew apart. Gambit's cards detonated in an insulated pop as she used her powers to contain them in a telekinetic bubble.

Gambit sat up from where he had been thrown onto the floor. He began to crab-walk backward away from Jean. "What d'you want?" he called to her. "What'd he send you here for?"

Jean shook her head. "No one sent me, Gambit," she said sadly. "I was brought here."

"Brought here?" Gambit asked.

Jean had walked forward to stand in the center of the room. She gestured weakly at the dead man at her feet. "I asked him to bring me somewhere safe. He took me here. Then someone shot him from there." She pointed to the broken window.

Daredevil stood and faced the broken window he had jumped through. "An assassin?" he asked.

Jean's shoulders moved up and down. She seemed very tired. "I don't know. I couldn't find out. You both arrived just a few seconds after it happened. I concealed myself, telepathically. I – I didn't know what else to do."

Gambit was still looking with disbelief at Jean. "This has t'be some kinda trick," he said.

Jean shook her head and held out her arms to her sides. She took a step forward and Gambit hastily backed up.

"Stay away from me," he told her.

Jean looked at him sadly. "You don't have any reason to believe me, I know," she said. "But Sinister didn't send me after you."

Daredevil had crouched and was feeling across the floor for his phone. He found it and picked it up. "We can sort this out later. Right now, you need medical attention. You're bleeding."

Jean looked down at her forearm. It had been wrapped in a piece of torn cloth which had soaked through with blood. Droplets of red fell onto the floor as she stood.

Gambit shook his head. "I don't –."

"Call Cecelia," Daredevil told his phone.

Gambit blinked at him. "Wha – what?"

"Doctor Reyes?" Daredevil asked. "Yes, I have an emergency. Do you think –."

"How d'you have Cece's number?" Gambit asked, somewhat angrily.

"Excuse me a moment," Daredevil lowered the phone and put his hand over the mouthpiece and asked Gambit smugly: "What's a-matter? You jealous?"

"I'm going to _kill_ you!" Gambit shouted.

Jean buried her face in her hands and moaned.

~ oOo ~

"What are you eating?" Matt asked incredulously, gingerly touching the splint covering his nose.

"Palak paneer," Remy responded, somewhat indecipherably since his mouth was half full. He swallowed. "Seein' as how you had to go and knock my teeth loose, I can't hardly eat nothin' else."

"Well, it smells appalling. How can you eat that stuff? It's searing the inside of my brain," Matt complained.

"Trust me, it doesn't _look_ any better than it smells," Cecelia responded dryly and opened the window of her apartment. She used her hand to fan some fresh air into the room.

Remy was seated on her couch, eating from a take-out container. There was a small dinette set nearby. Matt was sitting in one of the chairs, Jean in the other. Cecelia had been tending to their injuries, splinting Matt's broken nose and stitching up the cut on the inside of Jean's arm.

"I'd eat just about anything at this point," Jean said mildly.

Remy eyed her warily. "Do you...want some?"

Jean smiled wanly. "Is it spicy?"

Matt wiped his hands across both cheeks. "Ugh, I'm burning from over here."

Remy stood to walk over to the small table. He dropped the container in front of Matt. "I could be persuaded to share."

"Please don't start again," Cecelia said and pointed a finger at Remy. "I've had enough of you two bickering in the last few hours."

"He started it," Remy grumbled.

Jean pulled the container towards her and examined the contents. "This looks...interesting."

"You're taking your life in your hands," Matt told her.

"I'd prefer it that way," Jean said and picked up the plastic fork. "Rather than leave it in Sinister's." She put a forkful of the spinach and cheese-based meal into her mouth. Her eyes watered. "Oh! That's hot." She began to cough.

"See, you've killed her," Matt said to Remy.

Cecelia poured a glass of water from her tap. She handed it to Jean. Jean spluttered: "I've died before. This is worse."

Remy sat on the end of the couch and folded his arms. "Your sense of humor survived."

Jean wiped her eyes with her knuckles. "Does this mean you're starting to believe my story?" she asked.

"Dunno, _chère._ Like to give people de benefit of de doubt, but it keeps coming back t'bite me in de...butt."

"So you think I'm Sinister's puppet and I've been planted in your apartment? What happens next? What do you think I'm going to do to you?" Jean asked.

"Dunno that either. When Sinister is concerned, de worst I can imagine is still de best case scenario," Remy responded.

From where she was leaning up against her kitchen counter Cecelia said to Jean: "We should probably take you to a hospital. Schedule some scans, do some blood work."

Jean raised her hand and waved weakly. "Please, no. I – don't think I can handle any more examinations right now."

"You can take her to d'X-Men," Remy told Cecelia. "They'll get her sorted out."

Jean looked up at Remy, a flash of anger in her eyes. "No one is taking me anywhere," she said. She gasped and put her hand to her stomach, feeling a phantom pain of claws in her abdomen. Jean blinked and shook her head to dispel the sensation.

Remy held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, relax," he said with some concern. "You don't gotta do nothing you don't want to do."

"Someone killed...my friend. I'd like to know who was responsible," Jean said.

Matt turned to Remy. "Someone was waiting for you, watching your apartment. They must have seen the clone and assumed it was you. You're very fortunate."

"The _clone_ was not so fortunate," Jean said, her mouth turned down in a trembling frown. She looked away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be insensitive," Matt apologized. To Remy he said: "Any idea who would be out to kill you?"

"No, not at de moment," Remy said, considering. "Though when your _client_ Jesus sells me out to de Juárez Cartel, I'll probably find myself a foot shorter." He held his hand out flat and made a slicing motion across his neck.

"You don't need to worry about Jesus," Matt told him. "He's a reformed man. I can handle the Cartel problem."

"Yeah, sure," Remy replied. "Seein' as how I took care of most of it myself. But you go on ahead and take all de credit."

"I still can't believe you were working with the feds on this," Matt said, rubbing his forehead.

"Just keep tellin' yourself that. Makes it easier for you to justify attackin' me."

"I can't actually _see_ you, you know. I could only sense your shape. You were covered head to toe," Matt said, gesturing. "And carrying a gun."

Remy stood and took a few mincing steps. "Oh, and mebbe if I'd dressed up in a little catsuit like Felicia you'da gone easier on me! Mebbe purred a few sweet nothin's in your ear!"

"What do you know about Felicia?" Matt snapped.

"Meow meow, I'm de Black Cat," Remy said in a higher voice. "Lookit me, all sexy. Purrty please, Mr. Daredevil, don't turn me in!"

"Hey!" Matt shouted. "That was a completely different circumstance!"

"De circumstances of you gettin' your –," Remy began and made a rude gesture.

"Remy!" Cecelia interrupted.

"Whatever went on between Felicia and I is no business of yours," Matt said. "And I don't know what you heard but –."

"Heard it straight from de kitty's mouth. You don't think a coupla thiefs don't get together every so often to...compare notes, so t'speak?" Remy said.

Cecelia frowned.

"You're full of shit," Matt said angrily though he could sense Remy was telling the truth.

"What's a-matter? _You jealous_? Alls I'm sayin' is dis is some kinda weird reverse discrimination!" Remy announced. "Fee gets off...in more ways tha –."

"That's quite enough," Cecelia said, folding her arms.

"Meanwhile, I get a club in de face," Remy finished and pointed at his jaw.

"I think I've found a motive for why someone would want you dead," Matt said drolly. "Now to find the culprit."

"Oh good, Detective Devil is on de case," Remy said.

Jean leaned over the take out container. "What is _in_ this? Sarcasm serum?"

"I'm a lawyer, not a detective," Matt told him. "Though it's clear to me that you've drawn some unwanted attention."

"All dis notoriety is crimping my lifestyle," Remy complained.

"Yes, I'm sure it's definitely impacting your return to a life of crime," Cecelia said with disapproval.

"Because my life of superheroing has been so rich and fulfilling," Remy said.

"There is something the matter with you," Jean told Remy. He avoided her gaze.

"This is news?" Matt asked.

Jean ignored Matt. "Remy...what happened? Are you all right?"

"I quit smoking. I'm grouchy," Remy said. "That's all. Let's go, _jolie alouette_."

Jean blinked at him. "What? I told you, I'm not going to the X-Men." She shook a little as she said this, a note of fear in her voice.

"That's a good plan. Sinister comes after you, that's de first place he'd look. Let's make tracks outta town 'til de heat dies down." Remy picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he walked towards the door.

Jean glanced at Cecelia and then back at Remy. She stood. As Jean started after Remy, Cecelia pushed away from the counter to follow. Remy had reached the door and pulled it open. When Jean joined him, he offered her his coat. Jean was only wearing an old pair of scrubs Cecelia had leant her and worn tennis shoes.

Cecelia put her hand to the open door. "Remy," she began.

He paused in the hall and turned. "Yeah?"

"You don't...," Cecelia glanced at Jean. "Ah...Nothing. Be careful."

Matt turned his head towards the window, listening to something only he could hear. "What time is it?" he asked.

"'Bout six or so, I'd guess," Remy answered.

Matt leapt up from his chair. "Dammit, I'm going to be late."

"Late?" Remy asked. "Seems early to me. Too early."

Matt lightly touched Cecelia on the shoulder as he passed her on the way out of the door. "Thanks, Doctor Reyes."

"Sure, but –," Cece began, looking flustered as she watched her guests depart. "Remy!"

He turned again.

"Just call me later, okay?" she asked.

He smiled vaguely and continued down the hall.

There was a strange silence as Remy, Jean, and Matt stood awkwardly in the elevator. "Busy day, hunh?" Remy asked finally.

"Uhm, yes," Matt responded.

"Solving de mystery of my murder?" Remy asked.

"Well, there's that."

"Yeah, and...? Lawyerin' stuff? Ain't it Sunday?"

"Yes. It is."

"What, lawyers don't take days off?"

"Occasionally. I just have someplace I have to be," Matt was growing impatient.

"Remy, leave him alone," Jean said, sensitive to Matt's growing insecurity.

"You know where I'd like t'be? In bed. In my apartment. Except that ain't an option."

"Well, I suppose you have your priorities, don't you?" Matt said.

"Not all of us can be oh-so important," Remy told him. "So who do you have penciled in to your day planner?"

Jean trod on Remy's foot. "Ow!" he said as the elevator finally reached the ground floor.

"I'm going to Mass, if that's all right with you!" Matt said loudly as the doors trundled open. His voice echoed in the empty lobby.

"Oh," Remy said. He caught Jean's eyes for a moment and nervously looked away. "Catholic?"

"Yes," Matt said and combed his hands through his hair.

"Hm, me too," Remy added. "I went Wednesday. That counts for t'day right?"

"I don't think that's how it works."

"You're right. Maybe you should pray for me."

"You could probably use some divine intervention."

"Hey, Matty."

"What?"

"I got a joke for you. Did'ja hear de one about de lawyer?"

Matt sighed. "Which one?" he said dully.

" _All_ of them!"

* * *

Next time...Ain't that a kick in the...nuts.


	27. Coming Clean

**Stark Tower, New York City, New York**

**The Past, Five Weeks Ago**

Ororo was seated and staring at the conference room tabletop. There was an assortment of objects set before her; a deck of playing cards, a pair of lock picks, a glass marble, a thin leather billfold, a folded piece of paper, a gold watch, and a diamond ring. She reached for the paper and unfolded it. It was a list. It read:

_2 Red pepp._

_½ & ½_

_Bread_

_B. Rice_

_TP_

Ororo wondered: _Why would a clone have a list of groceries?_

She examined the ring. It had three round diamonds in a platinum setting. Her trained eye could see that it was valuable and of high quality. The gold watch, however, was not. Ororo opened its case to look upon the faux mother-of-pearl face. The watch was broken, the hands stilled. She set it back onto the tabletop. She picked up the billfold. It contained a folded twenty dollar bill, a black and white photo strip from a photo booth, and a personal identification card. She slid the card from its plastic holder. The card was issued to a René LeMieux of Cut Off, Louisiana. It was a license to operate a motorized bicycle. It had expired five years ago. The young boy's face pictured on the license matched that of the boy they now held in a cell in the lowest level of Stark Tower. Ororo set it aside and looked at the photographs. There were two. The strip had been torn horizontally in half; the other two images from the strip were likely in someone else's possession. Ororo imagined they must belong to the blond-haired girl in the photo. In the two photos she now held there were two children, one with light eyes and blond hair, the girl, and the other a boy with darker hair and strange black eyes. The pair were smiling for the camera in the first shot. In the second, they were nose to nose, smiling with silly grins at one another. A boy and girl in love with one another; Remy LeBeau and BellaDonna Boudreaux.

_How is this possible?_ Ororo thought to herself.

She was interrupted by the sound of laughter. Tony Stark was watching the security footage from the cell block many floors below. He had rewound the footage several times now, laughing particularly hard at certain intervals. Ororo was irritated, but not so much as Logan, who was still dressed in his blood-stained uniform and downing a large cup of coffee. The conference room door opened to reveal Rogue. She glanced at Ororo before being distracted by one of Tony's hoots of mirth.

"Oh, this is going right up on YouTube," he said as he watched.

"Do it, and die, Tin Man," Logan growled.

"What's that?" Rogue asked and Tony beckoned her over.

"You have to see this, this is the best part," he laughed, pointing at the monitor. "Oh, wait...here it is! Watch him kick Logan right in the – Ooh!" Tony said, wincing in false sympathy.

"That's Oscar-worthy stuff, Tony," Rogue said dryly as she turned away with a roll of her eyes.

"You didn't see the part where he bites Sam," Tony told her.

"It really wasn't that funny," Sam complained from where he was nursing his bleeding hand over in the corner. Although he had left the battle in Sinister's London unscathed, he had emerged only to be bitten on the hand by their unfriendly captive. The moment Sam and Logan had left the clone alone in the cell, he had set to destroying the thin mattress pad on the metal cot. He used the torn mattress to flood the toilet and sink. He managed to render the security camera useless with a wad of sodden batting. When Sam and Logan reentered the cell, the clone had caught Logan unawares by throwing the wet ticking into his face. Sam had grabbed the clone when he tried to flee through the open cell door. It was then that the young clone had sunk his teeth into Sam's palm.

"That little runt _bit_ me," Sam continued. "Ah hope Ah don't get some kinda weird disease."

" _Au contraire_ ," Tony said. "I find it highly amusing that two fully-grown and fully-fledged X-Men _cum_ Avengers get the run-around from a prepubescent Gambit clone."

"Somebody trained him," Logan countered. "To fight."

Ororo opened her mouth to interject when Sam continued: "In what, the art of hair-pulling?" As Sam had wrestled the clone into the holding cell, their young opponent had grabbed fistfuls of Logan's hair and refused to let go. Even now, patches of Logan's hair were still regrowing.

"That and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He may be a runt, but he's squirmy," Logan said and chucked his empty coffee cup into a waste basket. "Small as he is, he knows how to use an opponent's weight against 'em."

"Is that your excuse for how he managed to escape the cell the first, or the second time?" Tony asked, watching the screen that monitored the cell.

"We shoulda hog-tied him," Sam said.

"How was I to know he had all that junk on him?" Logan asked and gestured at the items on the table.

"Not all of it's junk," Rogue said as she looked over Ororo's shoulder at the objects Logan had removed from the clone's pockets. Rogue picked up the ring and slipped it on her ring-finger to admire it. "Stolen, looks like," she said. "Wonder who it belonged to?"

"I am more interested in these other items," Ororo began. "And what they could mean. Such as this list."

Logan took the list Ororo proffered and studied it with a furrowed brow.

"Someone sent him out with a list of groceries," Ororo said.

"What're you thinkin', 'Ro?" Logan asked. "Sinister was out of toilet paper?"

"There is also this license. It appears to be counterfeit. However, its validity lapsed several years ago. What use is an expired counterfeit ID card? And these photographs."

Rogue took the photos. "That's Belle, for certain." She looked up at the monitor, her face etched in concern. "So you think that's the real deal? That's _our_ Remy?"

"Ours or perhaps another version from an alternate timeline," Ororo said. "The card says his name is René."

"Then how'd he get here?" Sam asked. "Did Hank swing by and pick him up when he was pulling our original X-Men from the past?"

"It's possible he brought himself," Rogue said. "On his own powers."

"Gambit can do that?" Tony asked. "He seemed inhumanly fast, but I had no idea he could traverse time."

"Well, he useta be able to. But not anymore," Rogue said. "Adult-Remy, Ah mean."

Logan was about to reply when Bobby Drake arrived. "Reinforcements are here," he announced. "Cece's down in the clinic for – whoa, Tony. What happened to you?"

Tony gingerly scratched around a missing patch of hair at the nape of his neck. He had blisters ringing his throat and wrists. "A mixture of pepsin and hydrochloric acid," he replied, grimacing.

"Tony got et by a giant cave worm," Sam added.

"Really? Wow. Okay. Well the doctor is in," Bobby said and hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "Down in the med clinic. Where's Pym?"

"Tending to Steven," Ororo said.

"What could possibly have knocked Cap down?" Bobby asked.

Ororo frowned. "An explosion," she admitted. "Caused by my own negligence."

"It was an accident. Tensions were runnin' high," Logan said. "Cap'll be fine."

Tony stood. "I'll be in the clinic. That is, unless Sam needs Doctor Reyes to tend to his boo-boo."

"Ah shoulda let that monster finish his dinner," Sam griped.

"Storm?" Tony prompted. "Your hand?"

"Can wait," Ororo said and stood. "I would like to talk to our prisoner."

"He's not exactly chatty," Logan said.

"Knows a lotta cuss words, though," Sam said.

"You have a prisoner?" Bobby asked. "Who?"

Rogue pointed to the security monitor. "Pint-sized version a'Remy," she said.

Bobby regarded the monitor carefully. The boy pictured on the screen was seated cross-legged on a bare metal cot. Logan had stripped him of his coat and his shoes. "It looks like he's been put through the wringer," Bobby said. "Where'd he come from?"

"That is what I intend to find out," Ororo said.

"You can't be opening up that cell door," Logan told her.

"He's a little demon," Sam insisted.

"I will not underestimate him," Ororo said and looked at Logan meaningfully.

Logan started towards the door. "Let's go then."

Ororo raised her hand. "I do not think you should come along. He is frightened of you."

"Ororo and I can go try to talk to the Lilliputian LeBeau," Bobby said, turning away from his observation of the security camera feed.

"Good luck with that," Logan said.

"There's still the matter of the escaped clone," Sam said. "The one that tricked Tony into flyin' over that pit."

Logan nodded at Sam. "We'll track him down," Logan said and turned to Rogue. "Why don't you find the real Gambit?"

Rogue opened her mouth to retort and then seemed to think better of it. "All right, fine. Ah'll see if the computers can't pick up his signature. He picked a great time t'go missing."

"Sam," Logan jerked his chin towards the door. "Let's scout around. And 'Ro, don't let that kid outta your sight."

When the others had departed, Bobby turned to Ororo. "This is going to be fun," he said and grinned.

~ oOo ~

Remy was sitting motionless on the metal cot, staring at the closed door. He held his damaged hands limply in his lap. They were cut and sticky with partially dried blood. The scratches on his chest seen through his torn tee-shirt were stinging. His bleeding ear ached and he could no longer hear from it. But nothing compared to the throbbing pain in the back of his skull.

A few hours ago, he had regained consciousness while being carried like a sack of potatoes over the animal-man's shoulder. Remy had stiffened and rolled off the man's shoulder to scurry away down a long corridor lined with closed doors. The animal-man and his towheaded friend had tried to wrangle Remy into a cell. Remy had seized the doorframe, refusing to be pulled inside. His two captors changed tack and attempted to shove him into the cell feet first. Remy had thrown up his legs, refusing to be pushed into the small room. He'd screamed, cursed, clawed, kicked, and bit. When that failed, he'd clung to the younger man's torso like a monkey, digging his heels into the man's knee joints until he'd toppled. The animal-man tried to pull Remy free, and Remy had grabbed the man's hair. After a lot of struggling, they had finally managed to force Remy into the cell and close the door. Except the door didn't close all the way because of the marble Remy had wedged into the locking mechanism. Remy had run down the hall and around a corner to come to an elevator. He had slapped at the buttons in a panic, but before the elevator could arrive, the two men had returned to drag him back to the cell. Once more, the door closed and he was left alone.

They soon returned after Remy had twisted the strips of mattress ticking around the faucet's handles, stuffed the batting down the toilet and sink drain, and flooded the narrow cell. When the door reopened, the sodden rag had slapped wetly into the animal-man's face, and Remy was off down the hall a second time. He was tackled and dragged by his legs back into the cell. He managed to put a foot in the animal-man's groin before he was stripped of his jacket and tennis shoes. The animal-man bore down with his crushing weight while Remy was roughly searched. Then Remy was released, where he lay on the wet floor struggling to breathe. He watched the cell door close a third and final time.

He didn't know where he was, but at the very least, he no longer seemed to be in immediate danger of losing his life. He began to believe that he had only imagined Captain America. After all, why would a honest-to-goodness super hero care what happened to a nobody street thief? Or at least that was how he was going to play it if anyone asked. Now that he was captured, he could not implicate the Guild in any way. Nor could he expect rescue. He would have to find his own way out.

There was a metallic clang as the door lock disengaged. Remy tensed, waiting to see if he might have another opportunity to escape. The door swished open to reveal a young man and a tall and elegant woman. Remy's eyes flicked from one to the other. He recognized the woman from before. The other was a new face. The man seemed to be perfectly ordinary, dressed in a knit collared shirt and jeans. He had light brown hair and bright blue eyes. Remy had learned from his limited exposure to these people that appearances were deceiving. Mutants were just as the media had reported, a hidden menace. Who knew if the man would suddenly sprout horns or a tail or fry Remy on the spot with his laser beam eyeballs? Remy was unprepared for the man to stand there and smile at him, however. He didn't seem menacing or gloating, just smiling.

The man raised his hand and said: "Hi there!"

Remy stared at him. Usually, that had the effect of frightening people off. If that didn't work, he would move on to speaking in tongues and uttering curses, his whole _Diable Blanc_ routine.

"Do you recognize me? No?" the man asked and pointed at himself. When Remy didn't respond, he pointed at the woman. "How about her?"

Remy glanced at the woman. He did recognize her, she was the woman who had pulled him from the water. She stared at him with her blue cat eyes. He thought he remembered that her eyes were pure white, but perhaps he was wrong. Remy nodded once. Her expression changed to surprise and she stepped forward into the cell.

"Do you know me?" she inquired. Her voice was regal-sounding, formal, with a foreign accent.

Remy took a breath. "I saw you before. You were gonna let that man kill me."

The woman looked pained. "I am sorry, my friend –," she began.

"You're no friend of mine," Remy told her.

She paused, pursing her full lips. "I apologize," she said again. "We had mistaken you for – someone else."

"I pity that poor fool, and hope he can keep away from de likes of you and yours lest he ends up sliced t'pieces," Remy told her.

"Wow, and I thought his accent was bad before," the man said. "I can barely understand him."

The woman raised her hand to stay the man from speaking. "Robert, please."

"What is your name?" the woman asked Remy.

"Y'all took my stuff," Remy answered. "Seems you should know by now. Didn'tcha check de pockets?"

"Where are you from?" Robert asked.

"Louisiana, ain't that obvious?"

"Okay, here's a tougher question," Robert continued. " _When_ are you from?"

Remy froze, staring hard at the man. How could the man know that Remy had time-traveled?

"Can I guess what happened?" Robert asked. "I'm going to guess you came here on accident. Little mishap with the new powers, right? Hey, don't worry. Happens to the best of us, right Storm?"

Storm looked at Robert, perplexed.

"Well, did I guess right?" Robert asked Remy. When Remy didn't answer, Robert continued: "See, I could tell. I know! What say we get you cleaned up and patched up. You'll feel better after a shower, right?"

"I do not know –," Storm began.

"I know you'll _smell_ better, because pee-yew kid, you reek," Robert made a show of holding his nose.

"Anosmia," Remy told him.

"What's that?" Robert asked, momentarily confused.

"Nasal fatigue, I can't smell anything. So what do I care if you think I stink?" Remy asked him.

"Okay, so here's your options," Robert said as if Remy hadn't spoken. Robert held up a finger. "One, you can shower. Or two," he held up another finger, "we take you out back and hose you off like we do Logan. Take your pick."

Remy unfolded his legs and moved to perch on the edge of the cot. Maybe he would get a chance to escape after all. He was pretty sure the man was joking about the hose, though when Jean-Luc had first taken Remy in, he had been dragged outside by Tante Mattie and scrubbed raw with a stiff-bristled brush and hot soapy water. Prior to that, he had only taken baths maybe once a week, and only if the leader of their little mob of street urchins, Fagan, could catch him.

Robert beckoned him forward. "C'mon. Wait 'til you see the Avengers' locker room. You'd think they were the sultans of Brunei or something."

Remy was surprised. "The Avengers?" he asked. "So that was the for-real Cap'n America I saw?"

"Look at him," Robert said to Storm and pointed at Remy. "He's star struck."

Remy climbed off the cot and stood, trying to conceal how weak and dizzy he felt. He might have swayed a bit. The woman put out her hand and Remy shied away. She let her hand fall back to her side.

"Perhaps you are right, Robert. We can question him after he has been seen to by a doctor," Storm said.

"All right, let's go," Robert said. "No running away now."

Robert turned and left the cell, leaving Storm and Remy behind. Remy gave Storm as wide a berth as possible and followed Robert into the hall. Storm followed slowly. With the unknown man before him and Storm behind him, Remy decided the best idea might be to figure out just where he was before he made another escape attempt. Perhaps if he behaved with complacency, they would drop their guard and he would get a chance to flee. They took an elevator up several floors. They reached a hall with two wood doors, one to the right and the other to the left. Robert gestured the to right.

"After you," he told Remy. "Sorry, Storm. Boys only."

"Robert –," she began.

"I got this, don't worry. He could probably use some new clothes though," Robert said to her, and ushered Remy into the room. He waved at Storm as he closed the door.

Remy took in his surroundings. It was a long room. On either side were tall wooden lockers. There were two long benches down the center of the room. At the far end was a glass-enclosed shower area. The floor was marble tile. It was warm beneath his bare feet. Robert had closed the door behind them. Remy turned to look at him.

"All right, let's not make this any more awkward than it all ready is," Robert told him.

Remy wrinkled his nose at Robert. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is dis uncomfortable for you?" Remy said in an acerbic tone and held his arms out to his sides. "Because it wasn't _my_ idea to get beaten up an' held prisoner."

Robert raised his hands in a placating manner. "Okay, chill," he said. "We're not thrilled with the situation either. We'll work it out. First things first, into the shower you go."

Robert pointed and Remy glanced backwards at the shower. When he turned, he saw Robert opening one of the lockers. He returned with a folded towel which he handed to Remy. When Remy took the white towel in his hands, his fingers left smears of dirt and blood on the terrycloth. Robert put a bar of soap on top of the folded towel. Remy supposed he should concede to the man. It seemed easier than fighting. Robert followed Remy towards the showers. Remy glanced over his shoulder at Robert. The man came to a halt just outside the shower door and put his hands on his hips.

"You gonna stand there and watch me?" Remy asked him.

"I'm not supposed to take my eye off you," Robert said.

"That sounds gay. Are you gay?"

"I'm not gay."

"Bet you are."

"I'm not."

Remy studied him from the ground up. "Okay. Maybe not, but I bet I kissed more girls'n you."

Robert folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah right, tin grin," Robert said. "In your wet dreams."

"Are you sure you're not gay? I don't care if you are."

Robert pointed at the showers. "All right, Justin Bieber. I'm not going to stand here and argue with you. Hit the showers. Toss what's left of your clothes out here."

"My name's not Justin," Remy said, appalled.

"No, I didn't mean – I meant Justin – oh, never mind. You wouldn't know who that was anyway. Go wash up," Robert instructed.

After a moment or two, Remy reluctantly moved to obey. He hung the towel on a hook and put the soap in a metal dish affixed to the wall. Robert left him alone after he threw his ruined tee-shirt and jeans at the threshold. The shower water grew hot immediately. It fell like a torrential rain-shower from a shiny chrome faucet above. It was much nicer than the shower they had back home, which barely leaked out a stream of lukewarm water. Remy stood under the spray, letting his eyes close as the water cascaded over his head. He looked down to see filthy rust-colored water go swirling down the drain. The water stayed hot. It was like a miracle.

He picked up the soap and scrubbed his head with it, careful to avoid the lump at the back of his skull. Remy wasn't sure how long he had been down in those tunnels. Maybe a week. He seemed to have brought back half the filth from the tunnels, as well as dust and soot from the explosion and ensuing fire. He spent a long time trying to get the black out from under his nails. He withstood the sting of soap in his various cuts. When Remy felt he was as clean as he was going to get, he just stood beneath the flow of water and leaned against the wall. Robert didn't say anything to him.

Finally, he turned off the water. It was a novelty to not have anyone shouting at him not to use up all the hot water. He took the towel and dried himself, then draped it around his shoulders so that he was covered. Robert was sitting on one of the benches. He stood when Remy stepped out of the shower area. Robert rubbed the back of his head.

"Geez. When was the last time you ate anything?" he asked, looking concerned.

Remy shrugged.

Robert sighed. "So next we'll go see the doctor."

Remy shook his head 'no.'

"Let's go over your choices. You can wait to see Doctor Pym, or –," Robert told him.

"No," Remy said.

"Okay, Doctor Reyes it is," Robert said and clapped his hands once. "Good, I was hoping you'd pick her. I cannot _wait_ to see her face when she sees you."

"I don't want –!" Remy said.

"Let's go down to the clinic now," Robert said and turned. He seemed to expect Remy to follow.

"Where are my clothes!" Remy shouted at Robert.

"Hopefully, in the dumpster," Robert said. "Storm will bring you some new duds once you get to the clinic."

At a loss, Remy followed after Robert who had now passed through the swinging door and out into the hall. Remy pushed open the door and looked down the hall. "Hey!" he shouted at Robert.

"Clinic's around the corner," Robert said and pointed.

Remy made a sound of frustration and trailed after Robert, hugging the towel around himself. Robert was holding open another door. "In here," he said.

Remy stood in front of the open door. There was a well-lit room with shiny linoleum tiles in a gray and cream pattern. The cream-colored walls were lined with gray cabinets. At the room's center, there was a padded table covered in white paper. Remy felt nervousness grip his stomach.

"Have a seat. Doctor Reyes will be here shortly," Robert seemed particularly gleeful about this.

"You said I could have clothes," Remy said dully.

"Yeah, soon. There's that paper thing you can wear for now," Robert said and pointed to a folded paper gown.

"I ain't wearin' that!"

"Fine, go naked," Robert told him. "Your choice."

Robert gave him a little push and Remy stepped into the room. He turned to protest, but Robert had all ready closed the door. He was left alone in the quiet room. Remy wandered the circumference of the room, opening cabinets. He found gauze, cotton swabs, paper towels, and boxes of medicine. There was a drawer full of metal tools, another filled with plastic covered syringes. He closed those quickly. He reluctantly picked up the paper gown and it unfolded itself. He frowned at it.

Remy went to the door and found it had been left unlocked. He peeked around the door and down the hall. He could hear voices.

"Bobby, do you mind telling me what this is all about?" asked a woman's voice.

"No, I want it to be a _surprise_!" Bobby said.

Remy ducked back into the room. Maybe he could arm himself with one of those sharp metal tools. Unfortunately, he had no where he could hide any weapons. He hastily pulled on the gown.

There was a short knock on the door and then it opened.

"Ta da!" Bobby said with a flourish of hands, like he was a magician revealing a trick.

The woman Bobby was with stood in the open door at stared at Remy. Remy stared back at her. She was a petite and curvy woman in a white jacket. Her hair was kept in tiny braids which were held back in a ponytail. Remy thought she might be Hispanic. Her mouth opened in wordless shock.

"Bobby – what –?" she said.

"Now he comes in fun-size!" Bobby announced.

" _Madre de Dios_ ," the doctor breathed. "Remy, what happened to you?"

Remy felt a thrill of shock go through him. He knew his expression betrayed his surprise, but how did this woman know his name?

"Storm and I think he got lost," Bobby told her. "In time. He's kinda banged up. Remy, this is Doctor Reyes. She'll take good care of you, I'm sure."

Doctor Reyes walked into the room and set her clipboard down onto the counter. She put her hand on top of her head. "And things just keep getting weirder and weirder," she said.

"Have fun playing doctor, kiddies!" Bobby said and closed the door.

Remy and the doctor stared at one another. "Why don't you have a seat?" she asked him and pointed at the table.

"What're you gonna do t'me?" Remy asked her.

"We'll just start with a physical, okay?" she asked. "Sit, sit."

Remy backed up until he met the edge of the table. He boosted himself up onto it. Dr. Reyes approached and picked up a blood-pressure cuff. She wrapped the nylon cuff around his arm with velcro and inflated it with a bulb until Remy felt the cuff squeeze his bicep. He'd seen the machine before at the hospital and knew how it worked, but he'd never had it done to himself. She took his blood pressure and she listened to his pulse. The doctor murmured to herself and wrote something down on her clipboard. She looked at the cuts on his hands and frowned. She looked in his damaged ear with a light.

"Broken eardrum," she said. "Can you hear from that ear?"

Remy shook his head.

"It will heal on its own," she said and he cringed as she placed a cotton ball into his ear and taped it in place. "We'll just have to wait. Don't get any water in it, all right? What else?"

Remy shook his head again.

"You're bleeding through the gown," she said, and pointed at his chest.

Remy looked. Sure enough, there were a few droplets of blood seeping through the blue paper.

"Let's see it," she told him.

"It's not that bad," he replied.

Doctor Reyes pursed her lips and laid her hands around his neck. He jerked back and out of her reach.

"Are my hands cold?" she asked. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. Sit still."

She pressed her fingers below his jaw and down either side of his neck again, looking for something. "You feel hot," she told him. She turned and found a thermometer in the cabinet and put a plastic cover on it. "Open up."

The doctor made him hold the thermometer under his tongue. He looked down at the digital numbers, eyes crossed. When the thermometer beeped, she pulled it from his mouth. "You have a fever," she said. "Unless that's normal for you. Is it?"

Remy shrugged. He flinched when she lifted one of his eyelids.

"You're dehydrated," she said. She made him open his mouth and say 'ah.' She checked his reflexes by tapping on his knees.

"Lay back," Doctor Reyes instructed.

Remy didn't really want to do that.

"Please," she asked. "I'm just going to feel your stomach. Haven't you had a physical before?"

"Nope," Remy answered.

"Never?"

"No."

"When was the last time you went to the doctor?" she asked.

"I haven't," he told her.

She frowned.

"Have you had any inoculations?" she asked. "Shots?"

Remy shrunk back. "No," he answered slowly.

Her mouth frowned. "Well, I'm going to give you a DTaP."

Remy didn't know what that meant, but he shook his head anyway.

"Go ahead and lay down," she said again.

"I can't," he told her.

"Really?" she asked. "Why is that?"

"I hit my head," he answered. "It hurts."

"Well, why didn't you tell me that when I asked if you were hurt?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip.

"It's not that bad."

"Let's see," she said and put her hands to his head. When her fingers found the lump at the back of his head, he yelped.

"Not that bad? I barely touched you," she said. She picked up a tool from one of the drawers and held it in front of his face. "There's going to be a bright light. It's probably going to feel a bit uncomfortable."

She was right about that. She shined a bright light in his eyes and looked through the tool. Remy blinked away the bright dots that danced in his vision.

"Well, your eyes look normal," the doctor told him. This was news to Remy. "But you probably have a concussion. If you're not going to tell me what's wrong, then I'll just have to send you to get scans and x-rays. Would you prefer that instead?"

Of course he didn't, but he sat there in sullen silence anyway.

"Are you dizzy? Seeing double?"

"Maybe dizzy," he admitted.

"You need rest, bed rest. For a week. No reading, nothing that requires too much concentration. This is serious, I mean it. What else is wrong?"

"Nothin'," he said. "That's all."

"Are you sure?"

"I have a hangnail," he said and showed her his thumb.

She sighed through her nose. "Tell me, do you take any drugs?" she asked.

"No, of course not," he answered dutifully.

"No alcohol?"

"No, ma'am," he lied.

"Oh, really? How about cigarettes?" Doctor Reyes asked.

"Nope," he shook his head.

"Now I know you're lying to me," she told him. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to know better, but too young to care," he answered.

"Very funny," she said, not sounding amused in the least. "Are you sexually active?"

"Not at de moment, but you're welcome t'activate me anytime, _chère_."

There were a few beats of silence. "I bet you think you're pretty cute," she said, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses.

"Goes without sayin'," Remy answered.

Doctor Reyes went to the cabinets and began opening doors until she found what she wanted. She placed a few things onto a metal tray which was set on a cart and then wheeled it towards the table where Remy sat. He looked at the tray with growing trepidation. He saw there were two syringes on the tray. One was empty and one was not.

"Give me your arm," she said.

"No way," he told her and moved to climb off the table.

"I could stick it in your thigh instead," she offered. "Or you could get tetanus and die. How's that sound?"

"What's that other thing for?" he asked, nodding at the other syringe.

"We should probably do some blood work on you."

"No, thanks."

"What's wrong, are you scared?" she asked, attempting to taunt him.

"Yes, terrified," he agreed.

"Please," she asked politely, changing her tone. "I'm worried for you."

"Why?" he asked.

She looked at him, perplexed. "I suppose you'll find out when you're older," she said finally. "I want you to have this vaccination. I'll let the blood work go if you do this one. Okay?"

"Uhgnn," Remy whined and shrunk away.

"Really? After all you've been through you're going to be a baby about a tiny little shot?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Yes...?" he answered.

"You'll hardly feel it," she told him and took his arm. "Turn and look at the wall."

"Aagh!" Remy cried.

"I haven't even stuck you yet," she said and wiped his arm with a cotton swab.

Remy scrunched up his face and made a whimpering sound.

"See, it's all over. That didn't hurt, did it?"

"Yes!" Remy said and looked at the hole in his arm. "Owww!"

Doctor Reyes stuck a bandage over the injection site. She dabbed at his hands with some antiseptic and then covered the worst of the cuts with gauze.

"I feel sick," he told her.

"Just take deep breaths," she said. She went to the small sink and turned on the tap. She returned with a paper cup full of water which she handed to him. The doctor placed some pills into his palm. "This is for the pain." She showed him an amber colored bottle which she set on the tray. "These, I want you to take three times a day. Just in case of infection. You're not allergic to penicillin? Antibiotics?"

He shrugged.

"Hm," she said. "I want you to drink lots of water, all right? Don't eat too much all at once. Start off with small meals. And just rest."

He shrugged again.

"How did you end up here?" she asked.

"I dunno," he said. "Like what's-his-face said. On accident."

"Did you lose control of your powers?" she questioned.

"No," Remy answered. "Sort of. Not really." Now he felt a little afraid. His powers hadn't worked since he'd caused that explosion. He hoped they would come back, otherwise, he had no idea how he'd get back home.

There was another knock at the door. "How's it going?" asked Bobby through the door.

Doctor Reyes opened the door to reveal Bobby and Storm standing just outside. "We're about done," she told them.

Storm stepped into the room holding a bundle of folded clothing. She held it out to Remy.

"I had your jacket laundered," she told him. "I am afraid it is still damaged, but I imagined you would like it back."

After a moment of hesitation, Remy reached out and took the clothing. He looked at Storm, wondering if she were trying to trick him into thinking she was nice. Her expression seemed sincere.

"Look what I have for the good little patient," Bobby said and held out a red lollipop. Remy frowned at him. He suspected that Bobby was patronizing him, but he took the candy anyway. He was not one to turn up free candy – _ever_.

"We'll let you change," the doctor said and ushered the other two from the room.

When the door closed, Remy pulled off the paper gown and crumpled it up in a ball. He left it on the paper-covered table. The clothes looked as if they belonged to someone much younger than him. The tee-shirt was blue and had a big black 4 ½ inside a white circle on the chest. He had no idea what that could mean; it sort of looked like the Fantastic Four's logo, but it wasn't. There was a pair of worn blue jeans, shorts, and socks. Storm had also given him a pair of tennis shoes, but they were a little too small. Remy was used to hand-me-downs and ill-fitting clothes. He left the shoes untied. Lastly, he pulled on his jacket. Storm was right, it was burned and torn, but at least it smelled clean. It was still warm from the dryer.

Remy put his good ear to the door to hear the murmur of adult voices from behind.

"He has a concussion. Someone needs to monitor him," the doctor was saying. "For any changes in behavior, sleeplessness..."

"How are we supposed to know what's normal for him or not?" Bobby asked.

"Just keep an eye on him, Bobby. He has an elevated temperature. It may be a sign of infection. I've given him some antibiotics. Make sure he takes them."

"I am not sure we will be able to force him, if it should come to that," Storm said.

"Maybe we can hide the pills in some cheese, like we did with the family dog," Bobby responded.

"I don't know if I should say anything, but... Have either of you heard from –," the doctor began.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" asked a voice.

Remy jumped back from the door. He recognized the animal-man's voice.

"Oh, hey Logan," Bobby said calmly. "No luck finding the clone?"

"No! I thought I told you not to let him out of his cell!" Logan continued angrily.

Remy shuffled backwards and then turned. He ran to one of the drawers and yanked it open. The metal instruments inside slid forward with a rattle. He picked up something that looked like a knife and stuck it in his pocket.

"He was in need of medical attention," Storm said.

"You'd be in need of a body bag if he'd blown himself up," Logan said. "We'd be mopping you off the walls."

"Well, he didn't blow up. Not to mention my shields are resistant to kinetic energy and percussive forces," Doctor Reyes answered. "We're fine."

The door opened and Remy turned to face Logan. The man glared at him.

"We don't know anything about this thing," Logan said and pointed at Remy.

"Logan, please," Storm said.

"This _thing_?" the doctor repeated.

"Well, he could be a clone or something," Bobby said. "But I doubt it."

"I am not a clone!" Remy shouted.

"Clone or not, he came outta Sinister's lab. And I don't trust him. What's in your pocket?" the man growled.

Remy hesitated, his hand was still inside his pocket.

"Turn out your pocket, kid," Logan snapped and took a menacing step forward.

After a pause, Remy slowly removed his hand from his pocket. He held out the red lollipop Bobby had given him.

"Are you going to take his candy, Logan?" Bobby asked.

"Shut up, Bobby!" Logan said and grabbed Remy by the arm.

"Let go-a me!" Remy said as he struggled to get away, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

"Wolverine, it is not necessary to manhandle the child," Storm told him. "He is an innocent."

"I don't know about that," the doctor said. "But he's not done anything wrong."

"He'll do what you want if you just ask," Bobby said. "Nicely."

"You're hurting him," the doctor said. "I just gave him an injection in that arm."

Logan growled at the other three adults. Remy was abruptly released and he stumbled away. He ran out into the hall and positioned himself behind Bobby, relying on him to be a human shield.

"If anything happens," Logan said and pointed at Bobby. "This is on you."

"Fine," Bobby said. "Let's just go upstairs and have a chat. Figure out what we're going to do next."

Logan pushed past them to stalk down the hall.

Bobby looked back at Remy. "Just behave yourself, got it? Don't make me look stupid."

"You don't need any help in that department," Remy told him.

"Hey! I stuck up for you!"

Remy pulled the wrapper off the lollipop, stuck the candy in his mouth and tucked the wrapper into Bobby's shirt pocket. "Little somethin' for your troubles."

"Good god, you're a brat," Bobby complained.

"Cecelia," Storm said and turned to look at the doctor. "Was there something you wanted to ask?"

The doctor glanced at Remy, then at the retreating back of Wolverine. She might have looked nervous or concerned. "Mmn, I – I'll talk to you later. Give me a call if you need any help. I'm going home and to bed. It's been a long night."

"Need a ride?" Bobby asked.

"I'll take the bus," she said and looked at Remy. "Take care of yourself."

"We will take him to the conference room," Storm said, and put a gentle hand on Remy's shoulder.

Remy let them shepherd him down the hall towards an elevator where Wolverine was waiting. Remy balked at going into the elevator car with the animal-man. But Bobby and Storm didn't seem willing to let Wolverine murder him straight away. When the car arrived, he was pushed inside. It was a large space as far as elevators went. Remy supposed if you were being wheeled to the medical clinic in a gurney, it would have to be large. When he turned around he saw a whole wall full of buttons...so many buttons, more than eighty. The building must be very tall, taller than anything they had in New Orleans. Wolverine pressed the button to take them to one of the upper floors. Remy felt the elevator begin to rise. He reached out with both index fingers and ran them down the rows of buttons, lighting nearly all of them.

"What the hell!" Wolverine shouted and shoved Remy back with a broad hand to Remy's chest.

Remy stumbled back into Bobby, who caught him and steadied him.

"I've always wanted to do that," Bobby said. He reached over and pressed one of the buttons Remy had missed.

"Keep your sticky fingers to yourself!" Logan barked at Remy, then turned on Bobby and said: "Don't encourage him!"

The elevator stopped at the next floor. Wolverine jabbed the button to get the doors to close themselves again. "For fuck's sake!" he complained.

They stopped at every floor. Each time, the doors would whisper open and reveal some new technological marvel. Remy found himself leaning forward, interested in seeing more. He nearly stepped off when he saw the large atrium full of armor, weapons, and other things he couldn't identify, all in various states of assembly. Bobby kept a grip on the back of Remy's jacket. Remy thought to himself that if he could steal anything at all from this building and make it out alive, then the other thieves in the Guild would never question his abilities or competence again. His heart practically leapt from his chest at the thought. The woman glanced down at him and he had to look away. Storm had smiled at him and shook her head briefly, as if she could hear his thoughts. Remy tried to remind himself to keep his facial expressions in check.

After several long minutes and a lot of expletives from Wolverine, the elevator arrived at their floor. Storm was the first to step off. When Remy dawdled in the elevator car, uncertain what would happen to him next, Wolverine reached out and dragged him out and pushed him forward. Remy stumbled a few paces then looked back to give the man a surly look. He tripped after Storm, now of the mindset that she was the lesser of the two evils.

They were walking along a wall of frosted glass. Remy could see shapes in the room beyond, but nothing distinct. They came to a pair of glass doors which swished open to either side. Inside was a large room. One wall was taken up with computer and monitoring equipment. The far wall was a great pane of glass; it was a window overlooking the soft blue sky beyond. Remy realized it was early morning. He hadn't known what time it was for such a long time, he had begun to think it was always night. There was a large oval table in the middle of the room with tall padded leather chairs. Some of the chairs were occupied. Someone was also seated in a chair at the computer, but the person's back was to the room and he couldn't see who it was.

There was one person he recognized and that was Captain America. Remy came to a dead halt and Bobby had to nudge him to get him moving again. Cap's skin was red and almost shiny in places. He looked like he might have been burned.

"Steven," Storm said upon seeing him. "I am terribly sorry."

"No worries, Ororo," said the other man who was also seated. Remy thought he recognized him too, from the news. "Steve's eyebrows will grow back in no time. Heightened regenerative abilities."

"There have been worse explosions," Cap said.

Remy felt a flash of hot mortification. Had his explosion blown up Captain America?

"So you let the boy out," said the dark-haired man. He said it absently, as he was preoccupied with something he was fiddling with in his hands. "Make sure he doesn't walk off with anything."

Remy concluded that they must know he was a thief. He stared at his untied tennis shoes, feeling ashamed. He'd never been made to feel embarrassed about being a thief before, and he didn't like the feeling. Standing before Captain America now made him feel as if judgement had been passed and he was found to be guilty.

"Any luck, Rogue?" asked Wolverine.

The chair at the computer turned to reveal the woman in green. Remy's eyes flicked to her and quickly away. He had to take a second look however, since she now appeared as a normal woman. There were no claws or fangs to be seen.

"No, this thing ain't workin'," Rogue said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the computer.

To Remy's ears, she had the voice of an angel. He gazed at her with avid interest.

"There is nothing wrong with that _thing_ ," said the dark-haired man.

"Ah'm usin' it just like you said," Rogue sassed him. "Your computer program's broke."

The man looked up from his project and pointed a minuscule screwdriver at Rogue. "I would account any inconsistencies you experience to _user error_."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he mimicked. "It will only detect a mutant if the mutant in question is using his or her powers."

"That ain't the problem," Rogue said and pushed her chair aside. "Seems like he's usin' 'em all right. Just everywhere all at once!"

When she turned the chair she revealed a computer monitor with a global map etched out in green over a black screen. There were numerous pinpoints of red flashing in many major cities across the globe.

"So either it ain't workin' right, or he's figured out a way to be multiple places at once!" Rogue said.

"That is not possible," Storm said, taken aback.

_Isn't it? Uh, oh,_ Remy thought and looked down, hoping the people would forget he was there.

Cap turned to look at the dark-haired man. "How many clones did you say you saw?" he asked.

"There was just the one," he answered and set down the object he'd been fixing. He stared at the map.

"Maybe you miscounted," Wolverine suggested, not kindly.

Cap turned to look at Remy. Remy considered hiding. "Perhaps we should find out what he knows," Cap said and pointed at him.

Remy started thinking that he would like to go back to his cell. The woman in green pushed the chair she had been sitting in towards him.

"Here, have a seat, sugah," she said. "You looked plumb tuckered-out."

When he remained immobile, she patted the back of the chair with her hand. "What's a-matter? You afraid Ah'm gone bite?"

He reluctantly pulled his lollipop from his mouth. "Kinda," Remy muttered and then he saw her hand. He couldn't help but point at her ring finger and exclaim: "Hey! That's mine!"

Rogue looked surprised, then seemed to remember she was wearing a ring. She looked at it. "Oh, really?" she asked. "And what's a little swamp rat like yourself doin' with a ring like this?"

Remy fixed his gaze on her. "Well that was my momma's ring, and she's dead now. So you'd better give it back."

Rogue put her hands on her hips. "Is that so?" she said. Her mouth was smiling and her eyes were bright. "And where do you suppose you got that watch?"

Remy glanced over to where she pointed. The dark-haired man was winding the gold watch The Witness had given Remy.

"That belongs t'me," he said.

"Look how cute," the dark-haired man said. "He's pouting."

"You got a story t'go along with that one?" Rogue asked.

"Yeah...I stole it," Remy told her.

The dark-haired man held the watch up with his forefinger and thumb. "This piece of junk? It's not worth the time I spent fixing it."

"Y'fixed it?" Remy asked, surprised.

Cap reached out a hand for the watch. When the dark-haired man placed it in Cap's hand he stood and walked towards Remy. Remy stepped back and as he did, Rogue took him by his shoulder and he flopped back into the chair.

Wolverine spoke again: "Now you're going to tell us how many clones Sinister's got stockpiled."

Remy took his eyes away from Cap to look at Wolverine. He tried to take apart the sentence in his mind and rearrange it so it made sense. Clones...Sinister...Stockpile...?

He moved to put the candy back in his mouth when Wolverine snatched it from his hand.

"Go ahead and answer the man," Cap told him, as if giving permission.

Remy swallowed. "I don't understand de question!" he said, his voice cracking. He winced. The dark-haired man snickered.

Cap held up his hand in a placating manner. "All right," he said, and held out the watch. "Why don't we start at the beginning. Do you have a name, son?"

Remy knew his face must be red, he could feel it burning. He wished he'd mastered the art of keeping a straight face. He looked at the watch, then back up at Cap. Remy thought Captain America might take back the watch if he reached for it, but to his surprise, Cap relinquished the watch into Remy's fingers. The metal was warm from the heat of Cap's hands. He held the watch to his good ear briefly. He could hear its reassuring ticking.

"René," Remy told Cap. He thought it probably wasn't a good idea to lie to Captain America, but did it anyway.

Rogue made a sort of snorting sound. Remy looked up at her and scowled. "D'you think my name's funny or somethin'?" he challenged.

"The name ain't but your answer is," she said. "All right, _René_. Where y'all from?"

"Louisiana," he responded.

"Ah figured that much. Where at?" she continued.

"Cut Off," Remy said. Surely they'd found his fake identification card. He'd be really stupid if he hadn't memorized it by now.

"Cut Off?" Rogue repeated. "What's in Cut Off?"

"Fuck all," Remy replied. "That's why I left."

"So you're a runaway," Cap said, crossing his arms over his chest as he perched himself on the edge of the conference room table.

Remy shrugged.

"Seems someone was expecting you to be back with the groceries," Wolverine said.

Remy had forgotten about Mercy's list of groceries. "I had t'take whatever opportunity I could get. They don't let me out de house much."

"What a surprise," the man who had fixed Remy's watch said.

"Who are 'they'?" Rogue asked.

Remy scrunched up his nose. "Nobody. Foster parents. They're mean t'me."

"Well, then. We probably won't have to worry about you being missed. Welcome to the great city of New York, young man," said the dark-haired man. "We could always use a few more thieving street urchins."

Remy's eyes went to the window. For the most part, all he could see was blue sky. But below was the city of New York. Of course, he thought. How could he have been so stupid? The Avengers live in New York. He could very nearly weep. He had been in New York all this time and didn't even know it.

Cap must have read his thoughts on his face. "You had no idea where you were, did you?"

"I have a real bad sense of direction," Remy answered dully.

"Is that how you ended up with Sinister?" Bobby asked. "You just took a wrong turn in Albuquerque?"

"I don't –," Remy began. "I don't know what y'all are talkin' about."

"Why don't you cut the crap and quit yer lying?" Wolverine said and pointed at him. "Where is Sinister now? What's he planning? How many clones are there? What were you doing for him?"

"I tell you I got no idea!" Remy shouted.

"Rogue," Wolverine said at looked at the woman in green. "Just take it out of his head."

Rogue looked surprised. "Well, now Logan. Ah don't think –."

Remy leaned away from her.

"My friends," Storm began. "Let cooler heads prevail. Our mission was put at terrible risk because of my recklessness. In my...anger, I acted impulsively, and very nearly killed my teammates. I do not wish to make the same mistake again."

"Storm –," Cap began.

She nodded at him. "Please, allow me to continue. When I saw...the clone of my friend, I reacted without thinking. Logan, I know you care about Jean, as do I, and hope to find her alive. I know we all want very much to see Sinister and his abhorrent creations destroyed. But threatening a child is no way to achieve our goals."

Storm turned to Remy then. "Remy," she said and he flinched. "You do not need to continue your charade. We know who you are. Some of the people in this room know you better than anyone else. I hope you can answer me truthfully."

Remy folded his arms over his chest, burying himself in his oversized jacket. His hand squeezed the watch.

"Can you tell us what you were doing below-ground?" the woman asked.

"Lookin' for a rabbit hole," he muttered sullenly. How could he explain that he had been terrorized by a teenage girl for over a week? That the thought of Alice gave him chills, and that she'd actually _been inside his head_ , controlling him. "I found de tunnel, and I went down it."

Storm regarded him for a moment. "What happened then?"

"I found a house. Like a great big house. So I went inside," he said.

"What did you see inside the house?"

He swallowed nervously. "The pale man," Remy answered quietly. Even now the thought of that man scared him. He glanced at the other people in the room. They were all staring at him. He slouched a bit into the chair.

"Sinister," Storm said. "Do you know this man?"

Remy shook his head. He did know, though. It was the man who had claimed to be his father. But he couldn't tell them that either. They clearly wanted this Sinister dead. Who knows what they would do to him if they found out he was possibly related by blood.

"Did you see anyone else?" Storm continued.

Remy was gnawing on his chapped lower lip. He shook himself, trying to drive away the image of the pale man reaching for him. "Y-yeah," he answered. "I saw two men in de stable. Twins, I think. They looked just de same."

"Blond? With claws?" asked Wolverine.

"Yeah," Remy replied, remembering the scratches on his chest. "Yeah, one of them clawed me. But they was in de stall locked up. And there might've been a third in de machine – a tube thing with gears."

"What about this 'tube-thing'?" the dark-haired man inquired, looking keenly interested. When Remy shook his head with incomprehension, the man continued: "Some kind of cloning engine, perhaps?"

"We never made it to any stable," Rogue said. "After we found Remy here, we came right back up."

"Then we'll need to go back down," Wolverine said.

Storm persisted: "Remy. Did you see a woman? A woman with red hair?"

Remy felt his heart turn in his chest.

"Please, Remy. The woman we are looking for is our friend. She is in danger."

Reluctantly, Remy nodded. Yes, he had seen a woman with red hair.

Storm's expression became eager. "Do you know where she went?"

Remy didn't want to answer. He could imagine the red-headed woman's body, broken under the shattered chandelier. "She's – dead," he finally said. "She died in de explosion."

Storm blinked. He could see her visibly swallow, then nod her head as she looked to the floor.

"Storm, you don't know that it wasn't another one of those Maddie-clones," Logan told her. His voice sounded a bit strained to Remy's ears. "We don't know that it was Jean."

"No. We do not know. Nor may we ever know," Storm said. She slowly turned and walked away.

Remy felt his chest constrict with guilt. He'd killed one of their friends. He didn't know what they would do to him if they found out. Maybe feed him to the animal-man. He peered around the back of the chair to look for Storm, but she had left the room and he couldn't see through the frosted glass to know where she'd gone.

Wolverine turned his attention back onto Remy, strode forward and leaned in close. "I can smell when people are lying," he said quietly. "And if I hear one more lie come out of your mouth –."

Remy shrank away from Wolverine as far as he was able without falling from the chair. He found himself leaning into Rogue's hip. Her hand dropped onto his shoulder in a protective sort of way.

"Logan, now you –," she began.

Remy decided to use the card he hadn't played yet. It was a tricky one, and could easily backfire. But they thought him a lot younger than he actually was and it worked on girls a treat. He burst into tears.

"I – I don't – know – what – you – w-want from – from meee!" he wailed, his words punctuated with sobs. He made sure they saw he was producing real tears before he threw his arm over his face. He cried noisily into his jacket sleeve.

"Logan!" Rogue shouted as she reached out and shoved at the older man. "Look what you went and did!"

Wolverine seemed nonplussed. He stared at the sobbing boy.

"Don't cry, sugah," Rogue said, and patted his shoulder. She pulled him against her side. That was nice, because when she crouched a bit, her breasts pressed right into the side of his face. "It'll be okay."

"He tried t'kill me!" Remy cries were muffled into her chest. She hugged him closer.

"Really, Wolverine. Making a little kid cry. And you, the headmaster of a school," said the black-haired man. "For shame."

"Shut it, Tony!" Wolverine barked. "What're we going to do with this kid?"

"Take him to the school," Cap said plainly and stood. "With the other children."

"Cece said he's sick," Bobby said. "And needs bed rest."

"He can go rest in a cell 'til we figure out how to get what we need outta him. And then put him back where he belongs," Wolverine continued.

"And have him destroy the place from the basement up?" Tony said. "Get him _out_ of here."

"This really isn't a place for children," Cap added. "Whereas the school –."

"Four Freedoms Plaza's got kids. Stick him there," Wolverine said. "Hire a babysitter."

"He's one of yours, Logan," Cap said. "Take him home!"

For a moment, the two men stared at one another. Wolverine finally growled. "Fine," Wolverine said and pointed at Bobby. "Get him downstairs and put him in the van." He turned and started towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Rogue asked Wolverine.

The doors swished shut. Rogue shook her head and sighed. Remy sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve. Rogue patted his back and hugged him briefly. From Rogue's protective arms, Remy happened to look up and see Tony staring at him. Remy smirked at him.

Tony opened his mouth and pointed at Remy but before he could speak Rogue said: "Ah'm gonna go after him."

"Better you than me," Bobby said. "I'll bring the van around front. Meet'cha down there."

"Hey," Tony said. "Don't forget your rugrat!"

"Ah'll be back in a bit," Rogue said and waved over her shoulder. "Just keep an eye on him for a sec." Rogue and Bobby departed.

Remy sat slouched in the chair, using the toes of his sneakers to rock the chair back and forth. Steve and Tony looked at him. Remy looked back. Using the arms of the chair, Remy boosted himself upright.

"I wasn't really cryin' fer real," he told Cap.

"No, of course not," Cap said kindly.

"I wasn't!"

"It's all right," Cap said. "You don't have anything to prove to me."

"You're really gonna send me away with that _cretin_?" Remy asked him.

"You'll be with other people your own age. Other mutants," Cap informed him.

"I don't know if I'll like that," Remy said.

"I think you should be more concerned with them liking _you_ ," Tony said.

"Can I have one of your robots from downstairs?" Remy asked him abruptly.

"Absolutely not," Tony answered.

"You've got like, five of 'em."

"I'm not giving an eight-year-old a robot."

"I'm fif – _six_ teen."

"Get yourself a Ford Fiesta, then."

Cap turned to look at Tony. "Did _you_ get a Ford Fiesta when you were sixteen?" he asked.

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," Tony responded. "And that's beside the point."

"I've flown a jet b'fore. I could use a robot," Remy said.

"You could use some Ritalin," Tony told him.

"Thanks for fixin' my watch," Remy said and opened the metal case to look at the clock face.

"Wh – what? Oh," Tony said, caught off guard for a moment. "You're...welcome?"

"Is it really seven-fifty? I'm never up dis early."

"Yes. And I might have made a few – adjustments to your timepiece. It will give you accurate time no matter where you end up," Tony bragged.

"Will it really?" Remy asked and held the watch to the ear that he could still hear from. "So it's like magic?"

"No, it's not like magic!" Tony said impatiently. "It's a precise measurement of the oscillation frequency within the nucleus of a cesium atom and the electrons –."

"Magic. Got it," Remy said and closed the watch.

Tony threw up his hands. "Sure, magic. That seems to be the solution to everything nowadays."

"I know some magic," Remy said and held out the watch.

"Do you?" Cap said. "Let's see it then."

Remy cupped the watch in his hands and held them to his mouth, then blew hard into his hands. When he opened his hands again, the watch had disappeared. "Ta da!"

"Bravo," Cap said.

"That's not magic, that's sleight of hand," Tony said. "The watch is in your sleeve."

"You're no fun," Remy told him. "Where's your _joie de vivre_?"

"It's in my other suit," Tony told him.

"Can I just _borrow_ your robot?" Remy asked.

"Sure."

"Really?"

"No, not really," Tony said.

"Perhaps some day, when you're older...," Cap began.

"Or never," Tony interrupted.

"You might want to come back, and think about how you could use the powers you've been given to serve your country," Cap told him.

"Steve, what are you doing?" Tony asked in a mild conversational tone.

"Nothing. Quiet, Tony. I'm planting a seed, is all," Cap told him.

"Do you really think you're going to make a difference?" Tony asked. "In this kid's life?"

"It can't hurt," Cap responded. "Don't discourage him."

"That's okay. I don't think I can anyways. Come back here, that is," Remy said.

"Why is that?" Cap asked.

Remy looked away. "I got some federal charges against me or somethin'," he admitted. "And I'm probably really, really late for my hearing. So I'm in big trouble for sure."

Cap frowned at him. "That's a shame, son. What did you do?"

Remy grimaced. "Somethin' dumb."

"Surprise, surprise," Tony muttered.

"But you're sorry for your mistake," Cap prompted.

"Sorry I got caught, t'be honest," Remy answered.

"That's...disappointing," Cap said.

"People are that way. Disappointing," Remy said.

Captain America frowned at him. "I expect the best from my people. If you don't expect the best, then you will never see a person fulfill their true potential."

Remy thought there wasn't anything else he could say. Captain America's perspective was so...naive. In Remy's experience, he had to hope for the best but expect the worst. When this was all over he had to go back to living in the real world down in the streets, and not in some high tower overlooking the clouds. The doors swished open and Cap turned his austere gaze upon the arrival. Remy turned and saw it was Rogue.

"C'mon, sugah. Let's get you back – let's get you to the school," she told him.

Remy didn't know about going to any school, but he slid from the leather chair and stood. He felt a little lightheaded and had to blink a few times before his vision cleared. When it did, Rogue was standing next to him with her hand on his arm.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Right as rain," he replied and smiled. "Wit' a girl as sweet as you on my arm."

Behind him, Tony made some kind of choking noise, but Remy ignored him. Rogue blinked at Remy, but then she slowly smiled.

"I'd be much obliged if you'd escort me to d'exit," Remy told her. "This Yankee's hospitality leaves somethin' t'be desired."

"Why, it'd be mah pleasure," she said and made a show of hooking his elbow in hers. He leaned against her for support.

He glanced once back at Captain America and waved at him. Cap raised his hand as well.

Remy thought: _If I told Emil I met Captain America, he'd never believe me._

They took the elevator again to the ground floor. They were let out in the sparkling lobby of Stark Tower. Remy could see people moving about on the street outside the glass front doors. He might have made a small sound because Rogue tightened her grip on his arm just a bit.

"Bobby's got the van out front. C'mon, we'd best hurry," Rogue told him.

Wolverine and Storm were waiting at the lobby doors. Remy could see sunlight on the street, the flow of traffic, and people, lots of people.

"Get him in the van," Wolverine said to Rogue. "Then we'll go."

Remy glanced up at Rogue. "You ain't comin'?" he asked.

"Disappointed?" she asked lightly. "Storm'll take care of you."

"You got him?" Wolverine asked Storm.

Storm looked at Remy for a moment, then turned and nodded at Wolverine. "And if you find anything...?" she asked.

"You'll be the first to know," Wolverine said and pushed open the door.

"Though Ah don't know how good cell phone reception'll be down there," Rogue commented as they passed through the lobby doors and onto the street.

Remy faltered at the threshold and Rogue pulled him along. Remy glanced up at her for a moment and smiled. He looked up past her to see the tall expanse of Stark Tower. All around him were tall buildings of glass, concrete, and steel. He continued forward, his head tilted back and his eyes gazing upwards at the city. He was being led towards the open door of a waiting van. The van was steel gray and had the words "The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning" in yellow on the side.

Remy tripped over one of his untied shoelaces. Rogue's grip on his harm lessened slightly as he began to crouch to tie his shoe. Wolverine had been flanking him but now was a pace and a half ahead. Remy stepped back, slipping his arm from Rogue's. Then he turned and bolted.

"Hey!" Rogue cried, and he felt her hand brush the back of his jacket.

Wolverine turned just as Remy ran behind him. Wolverine dove after him and managed to catch hold of Remy's arm. Remy was jerked forcefully around. He brought up his other arm as Wolverine reached to constrain him. Remy sank the scalpel he'd lifted from the medical clinic into Wolverine's bicep. Wolverine jerked with surprise and his grip loosened slightly. Remy twisted his arm free and turned. His feet slipped on the pavement and his legs shot out from under him. He crashed to the sidewalk. It was covered with ice. When he reopened his eyes, he saw Storm and Bobby standing over him. As a pair, they reached down to pick him up by the arms. Remy struggled in their grips.

"Help!" he cried out to random passers by. "I don't know these people! I'm being abducted! Somebody help me!"

"Nothing to see here, people," Bobby said loudly. "Super-powered truancy officers on duty! No more playing hooky for you, young man!"

"Aagh!" Remy cried as he was shoved into the open van door.

The door was slid shut and Remy threw himself at the handle, trying to pull it open.

The driver's side door opened. "Child safety locks," Bobby said and grinned. "Have a seat and buckle up."

Remy moved to attack Bobby in an act of desperation. The passenger side door opened and Storm climbed into the vehicle.

"Stop this at once," she decreed.

Breathing hard, Remy slouched back into the seat. He felt he had little choice, he'd used his limited reserve of energy in his last-ditch attempt at escape.

"Robert and I are more than capable of stopping you, should you decide to attack one of us again," she continued. "Sit down. Fasten your safety restraint. And do not move until we arrive at the school. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, your majesty," he said bitterly. "As you wish."

"This should be an interesting trip," Bobby said. "So, what should we listen to? Top forty? Urban Hip Hop?"

"Silence is my preference," Storm said as she seated herself and fastened her seatbelt.

Remy agreed. He slouched with his head leaning up against the edge of the bucket seat. He stared fixedly out the window until the busy New York City streets slid out of view.

* * *

Next: The Devil wears red pajamas.


	28. Blind Date

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Five Weeks Ago**

Daredevil was perched on the cement ledge of the high-rise apartment building, crouched with his elbows resting on his knees. The ledge overlooked a second apartment complex. The two buildings on this block were of a similar height, but the apartment he faced was just a story below and across an alley. It was the perfect venue for a would-be attacker to wait for his target to appear. Daredevil had leapt from this very spot less than twenty-four hours ago to crash feet-first through Gambit's apartment window. At the time he had believed he was on the tail of a cartel member; it wasn't the first time The Juárez Cartel had enlisted the aid of a super-powered criminal. Daredevil thought to nip the problem of the acrobatic high-stakes thief in the bud, and once again rob the Cartel of a powerful player.* Little did he realize that he had only just missed an assassin. That assassin's target had been Remy LeBeau. But instead of killing his intended target, the assassin had instead murdered a clone. The clone was, by Jean's account, an innocent man.

Daredevil had been thinking of the assassin as a 'he', but there was a hint of something decidedly feminine in the air that he couldn't quite place. Night had fallen, but the light from the streets below illuminated the black sky. Not that Daredevil could see any of it. He instead relied on his other highly-acute senses to paint the scenery around him. He turned and hopped off the ledge and onto the rooftop. Keeping to a crouch, he searched the rooftop with his sensitive fingers, seeking a clue to the assassin's identity. The clone had been killed in a single shot, which required the accuracy of a sniper rifle. Daredevil speculated that the assassin may have had military training. He searched for a casing, but found nothing. Which could mean that the assassin was using a bolt-action rifle, rather than a semi-automatic, or that he was just diligent about picking up his (or her?) spent rounds. Daredevil deduced the placement of the rifle on the ledge, and where the sniper's feet must have stood while he waited for his victim. It seemed unlikely that the assassin would have used one of the apartments below as his vantage point. This was a residence and the apartments would have been occupied at the time of morning when the clone was shot.

Daredevil had to wonder how a thief managed to rent an apartment on the Upper East Side of New York in the first place. Remy LeBeau certainly hadn't _earned_ the money to pay for such a place, at least not by legal means. That really stuck in Daredevil's craw. He'd spent years scrimping and saving and eating Ramen Noodles for weeks to pay for his degree, to found his own law firm. What had LeBeau done to have the privilege of living in such a posh neighborhood? Lie, cheat, and steal, that's what. Maybe when this was over, Daredevil could arrange to have LeBeau flagged by the IRS. See if a little audit wouldn't put a crimp in Gambit's _laissez-faire_ , free-wheeling-and-dealing lifestyle. Even as Daredevil entertained the fantasy of Gambit up to his eyeballs in receipts and government forms, he knew he wouldn't go through with it. Maybe Gambit _was_ right, and he'd been quick to judge the thief a little too harshly. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that Gambit was a male thief and not a curvaceous female in a skin-tight catsuit that happened to purr.

_He accused_ me _of being sexist!_ Daredevil fumed to himself. _Like he's got any room to talk!_

He dragged his index and middle finger across the concrete at his feet. He brought his fingertips to his nose and inhaled. Daredevil's sensitive nose detected the scent of earth, but not just any earth. This was vegetal, nutrient-rich dirt. River mud, to be exact. And the hint of chemical he detected could mean that it came from the East River. There was something else as well, the smell of soot and ash. But that might mean nothing. The entire city had been ablaze with the Phoenix Force attack. At one point, the river itself had been on fire. Daredevil stood and ran his palms over the concrete ledge surface. He leaned forward slightly, as if he were to peer down at the apartment below with its shattered window. There was that feeling again, that the person standing at this particular place at this particular angle had been female.

When he turned from the ledge, he had an idea of where he might start searching for the killer. Daredevil had made it his business to learn which buildings had suffered the most amount of damage. It wouldn't do to go swinging about the city skyline only to land on a burned-out shell of a building and fall through the rooftop. You had to take certain precautions when you couldn't see where you were leaping to. Daredevil made his way over towards the East River, dashing across tops of buildings and water towers and swinging over alleyways and streets. He came to a block of buildings along the East River that had been razed by the Phoenix Force's fire. The buildings were cordoned off with cement barricades and chain link fencing. Construction vehicles sat at the ready. One of the buildings had all ready been demolished to its foundation.

Returning to street level, he took in the perimeter of the construction site. Daredevil hopped up onto a concrete barrier, took hold of the top of the chain link fence and pulled himself up to stand upon the fence. The fence rattled slightly as he balanced there. He used his radar-sense to feel out the lay of the ground below him. It would be a treacherous walk across a construction site, full of unseen hurdles and pitfalls.

Searching the first burned out building turned up nothing. The second was just an empty shell. He crossed over an empty space where a building once stood. The concrete slab was solid beneath his feet. There was one final building to search. He skirted the exterior and gained access through a door that had been covered over with a piece of plywood. The interior was burned, but of all the buildings, this one had sustained the least amount of damage. It still had the support structure. The walls and ceiling had been ripped down to the steel beams. Below his feet was a concrete floor. It once had been covered in tile. The remnants of tile and grout crunched under his booted feet as he walked. His senses scanned the space, but the radar flashes he received in return relayed false walls where there were none. Daredevil used his hand, trailing from one support beam to the next, to feel out the walls. His toes searched out before him, his feet barely leaving the ground. One of his feet came down upon a wooden surface. When he crouched, he found another plywood board laying flat on the ground.

From somewhere in the building, he thought he detected movement. He turned his head, searching for the source of the sensation; a gentle stirring of air brought a strange scent to his nose, one he couldn't place. Daredevil had his fingertips on the edge of the plywood board. He pushed it forward gently. It scraped across the cement floor. He found himself on the edge of a stairwell, covered over so that no one would fall into the empty space below. From the stairwell came an updraft of cold damp air. The draft brought along the smell of river mud, and something more. It was the smell of death. Cautiously, he took the first step that would bring him down the staircase.

He felt as if he were descending into a tomb. His footfalls were swallowed by the damp surroundings. He came to the base of the staircase and turned. Daredevil could sense the heat leaching from the cooling body at his feet. He stooped to search the figure for signs of what had killed him. It was a male form. His hands found that the man was one part flesh, the other, mechanics of some kind. Daredevil guessed the man must be a mutant or a super-human. Judging from the rigidity of the flesh beneath his touch and the residual body heat, the man had been dead for less than an hour. Daredevil could not figure out how the man had died. There were no injuries on him.

There was something else as well. Daredevil found the remains of plastic ties, cut up and scattered on the ground. He found a bolt affixed to the cinderblock wall with the remnants of bindings dangling from it. Someone had been held prisoner here. In the floor was a metal grate. Daredevil laced his fingers through the bars and leaned down. Cold damp air filtered through the bars, bringing with it the smell of fear.

The soft scrape of a foot on concrete alerted him to the presence at the top of the stairs. He turned his head slightly.

"If you had any intention of killing me, I assume you would have done so by now," he said without turning around, his voice echoing in the dank basement.

"I was just admirin' your dimples," said the voice from above. It was a deep voice for a woman, but definitely female.

"You haven't even seen my face," he told the woman, aware that he was crouched face down on the floor, his posterior raised and pointed directly at the woman.

"I wasn't talkin' about those dimples," she informed him, her voice amused. "I meant the ones I can see through your cute little red pajamas."

Daredevil stood and turned slowly. The woman was standing above him on the first step. He gestured to the corpse at his feet. "I'm guessing this guy's dimples were less to your liking."

"He looks much better dead," she answered and took a few slow steps down the staircase.

"Is that why you killed him? Aesthetics?" Daredevil asked, his body tensed.

"No," she said and came to a halt at the second to last step, bringing her head level with Daredevil's. She was petite, almost a foot shorter than him. She brought with her that same strange odor he'd smelled from the rooftop near Gambit's apartment. It was almost a lack of scent. "I killed him because I was fulfilling a contract."

This gave Daredevil pause. "A contract? Then you were hired to kill him."

The woman considered him a moment. "Yes. In a sense."

"Who hired you?" Daredevil asked.

"As a professional, it would be against my personal ethics t'give you the name of a client," she began. "But seein' as how he's dead, I suppose it wouldn't do no harm."

She pronounced 'harm' as if to rhyme with 'warm.' It was not an accent he had heard often, but he'd had an earful of that New Orleans patois from just the night previous. It was too much of a coincidence for there to be two Louisianans involved in this caper. "If your client is dead, why go through with the assassination?" Daredevil asked.

"All part of de contract," she answered. "A bounty on de head of de killer who'd murder Remy LeBeau. A bounty transferred t'my account wit' de proof of success."

"Someone contracted you to kill Remy LeBeau's killer?" he asked. "Why?"

He could hear the woman's wry smile in her voice. "Why, t'keep Remy _alive_. That kinda money – t'ree million dollars – was incentive...Remy himself took out an open contract on the hide of any fool assassin who'd try an' kill him _years_ ago. Any number of killers-for-hire be champin' at de bit, just hopin' someone'd be dumb enough to take de chance and put a bullet in Remy's head."

Daredevil indicated the dead man. "He was dumb enough," Daredevil said. "A professional, too, I'm guessing. Wouldn't he have known about the contract?"

"Any assassin who's worth his salt would've known," the woman answered coldly. "Maybe he had a death wish."

"Then what is it? An act of stupidity or suicide?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "I didn't ask. He died faster than I'd have liked."

"How did you kill him?" Daredevil asked. "There are no marks on him."

"That's a trade secret, _mon Diable_. But they were friends, once."

"Who were?"

"That man...name of John Greycrow – called Scalphunter, and Remy. They was friends back when Remy was just a pup," she answered.

"I gather that their friendship is over," Daredevil said.

"Maybe they can make amends in de hereafter," she suggested.

"I'm afraid you won't be getting that bounty," Daredevil told her.

"Oh? And why's that? You gonna turn me in to de authorities, my little horny one?" she asked as she reached out a fingertip to touch one of the horns on his forehead.

Before she could touch him, he reached up and clasped her wrist. "You'll be disappointed to discover that Remy LeBeau is very much alive," Daredevil told her.

The woman gave a small, barely audible gasp. "Alive?" she repeated softly. "But that's not possible. I saw him dead on de floor. Shot in de head."

Something in her voice made him loosen his grip. There was a tiny hitch in her throat as she spoke of LeBeau's death. "That was a clone," he told her. "The assassin shot the wrong man."

She let out a breath. " _Merci le bon Dieu_ ," she whispered. "I thought I was too late."

Daredevil released the woman's slack arm. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Excuse me if I'm slow t'make introductions," she told him. "On account of you bein' a costumed do-gooder and all. But I hear tell you're...sympathetic to assassins. At least those of de female variety."

_Dammit,_ Daredevil thought. _My reputation precedes me._

"Don't frown, _mon chèr_ ," the woman said. "I hate t'see such a lovely mouth look so sad. Y'can call me Belle," she told him.

"Who is LeBeau to you? Family?" he guessed.

"In a way," she said lightly. "We was married once."

"Oh," Daredevil said, disappointed for some reason. "I had no idea Gambit was ever married."

"It didn't last long," she told him. "Irreconcilable differences, abandonment, and infidelity, de paperwork says. I told that lawyer man t'put down 'no-good-yella-belly-coward-runaway-scoundrel.' For de money I paid him, he should'a wrote down what I say."

"I admit, your terminology is certainly more...colorful," Daredevil said, his interest once more piqued.

"Well, I only wanted to hurt Remy," Belle admitted. "I was cruel. I confess, at de time I wasn't in de right frame of mind."

"Divorce has the tendency to bring out the worst in people," Daredevil conceded.

"It was more than that. I was outta my head crazy," Belle said.

Daredevil felt an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. "I wish you wouldn't make light. That isn't funny."

"Was I tryin' to sound humorous?" she asked. "I wasn't jokin'. I was for real. It's no fun wakin' out of some kinda nightmare of a dream and not know who you really are."

"Oh," he said, taken aback. "I – I'm sorry to hear that. My wife, I should say – my ex-wife, was driven...insane. It's a bit of a touchy subject."

Belle paused and shifted her stance. "Didja divorce her 'cause she went nuts?" she asked, testing him.

"No," he replied. "Her parents intervened."

"Heh," Belle said flippantly. "In-laws. Can't live wit' em, can't murder dem."

"Or in your case –," Daredevil began.

"Can't. It's bad PR. And my father-in-law and I...have come to an understandin'," Belle said, then asked: "Do you love her still? Your ex-wife?"

He paused to consider his answer. It was a very strange thing to be standing over a corpse discussing failed marriages with an assassin. "I do. Yes."

" _C'est ça_ ," she said with approval. "I suppose I won't kill you after all."

"May I ask," Daredevil paused, "what perfume you're wearing?"

Belle leaned forward until her face came alongside his. She said softly beside his ear: "I don't wear perfume."

"Soap?" he asked, his nostrils now suffused with her unusual scent. Her accent (unlike Gambit's) was charming, and wrapped around his head, entered his ears and curled up like a cat inside his skull.

"Hunter's soap, dey call it," she answered. "I never know when I might run inta someone a bit...nosy." She touched the end of his nose lightly.

"So no perfumes, no scents. That's just – you."

"Mm, hmn," she said and leaned away. "As much as I'd like t'chew de fat wit' you, _chèr_ , I'd best be gettin' on."

She turned and began back up the staircase.

"Where are you going?" he asked and started after her.

"I have work t'do," she answered, her voice floating back over her shoulder. "Greycrow was a mercenary for hire, not one t'act independent-like. Someone sent him after Remy."

"Do you know who?" Daredevil asked.

"I got an inkling," Belle answered, her voice like steel. "Seein' as how dis man tried t'hire me for de same purpose. No coincidence, another assassin showin' up to fulfill de same hit. Little do he know, I'm all ready contracted...by his _lover_."

"Do you mind cluing me in?" Daredevil asked and took her wrist again as they reached the top of the staircase.

She turned slowly and raised her opposite arm. Her fingers brushed his jaw and came to grasp his chin. "I'm afraid I can't," she told him and ran her thumb over his lower lip. "Can't have you follow me...and stop me from killin' who needs killin'."

The pressure of her thumb left a tingling sensation on his lip. He unconsciously wet his lips with his tongue, tasting her there. "You're right. I can't let you murder anyone else."

"'Let me'?" she said, a hint of mocking in her tone. "Nobody _lets me_ do nothin'. And I'd have shut you up permanently for talkin' t'me like that...if I didn't like watchin' your lips move so much."

"Belle," Daredevil began. "Gambit – Remy – trusted me to find the man who tried to kill him. We're on the same side. Let's work together."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, _Diable_ ," Belle told him. "Remy don't trust anyone. And I work alone. But I will answer one of your questions."

"What's that?" Daredevil asked. The tingling sensation that began with her thumb on his lip began to spread to his tongue. His lips now felt numb.

"Poison," Belle said.

"Poison?" Daredevil repeated, suddenly alarmed. The tingling numbness had spread outward from his tongue, which now felt dumb in his mouth. His fingertips and toes began to tingle as well.

"How I killed Greycrow," she said. "But don't worry, I didn't give you a lethal dosage."

"Wha – what?" he said, and suddenly, his knees felt like water. He began to collapse forward. Belle managed to catch him under the arms. Though small, she was quite strong.

Daredevil's chin fell against her shoulder and she slowly lowered him to the cement floor, her body covering his briefly. She released his arms and he relaxed bonelessly onto his back. Belle leaned over him.

"Sorry 'bout dat," she said. "You should be right as rain long before de construction crew comes t'fill dis pit with cement tomorrow morning."

"See-ment ta-marrah mowrnin'," he slurred, imitating her accent.

She knelt beside his head. "You know, back home dey call Remy _le Diable Blanc_ ," she told him. "And here I come up north and find me a devil of a different color." Belle ran her fingertips along the side of his face.

"Starting to think...Gambit...was right...about my judgement...of women," Daredevil stammered.

Belle laughed in her throat. "You've made dis little business trip a real pleasure, _Diable Rouge_. If you're ever down N'Awlins way, feel free to ring me up. Here's my number." She folded something in her hand and tucked it behind his belt buckle.

"You...might...still – be crazy," he forced through his numb lips.

"Wouldn't that be just your luck," she told him. " _Fais do-do, Diable_."

Daredevil could sense her rise and move away. Her footsteps were silent across the ground and she slipped from the building. For some immeasurable amount of time, Daredevil floated in a numb fog. Whatever she had drugged him with made him too stupefied to care that he'd just been hoodwinked by a femme fatale. And Gambit's ex, to boot.

A strange buzzing noise and sensation roused him from his haze. He turned his head slightly and found, to his astonishment, that he'd regained some mobility. The buzzing came again. He realized it was coming from his waist. His arm dragged slowly towards his belt, numb fingers felt the pouch at his thigh. The buzzing was coming from his phone.

_Must...answer_ , he thought, the compulsion to speak into his phone was too strong, it overrode all other thoughts. He loved his phone.

He fumbled the device free of the pouch at his belt and mashed the button to unlock it. He brought it to his ear.

"Hullo...?" he slurred.

There was a pregnant pause at the other end of the line. "Hello?" asked a woman's voice. "Is this...Remy?"

_What the HELL?_ Daredevil thought. "Who is this?" he asked irritability as he struggled to sit upright.

"I'm sorry to be calling so late," the woman continued. "After I left the voice mails...and I never heard from you. I assumed you didn't want to speak with me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Daredevil responded.

"I'm sorry. I'm a little flustered," she laughed nervously, a hoarse cough of a laugh. "This is Helen. Helen Moreux."

Daredevil searched his memory for the name. "I think you might have the wrong number," he told her.

"Oh...I...I'm so embarrassed. I got this number from – from one of those agencies that can find phone numbers and information. I guess it wasn't a very reputable source," Helen responded.

Daredevil thought his mind must still be reeling. "But you asked for Remy, didn't you?" he asked, confused. How many Remys could there possibly be?

"I did," she answered.

"Remy LeBeau?" Daredevil said as he climbed to his feet. He put out a hand and felt for a support beam to hold himself upright.

The woman paused for a long moment. "Yes..." she answered slowly. "Do you know him?"

"Yes," Daredevil answered. "And he's turning out to be a huge pain in – a huge problem."

"Is he all right?" the woman asked, her voice raised in alarm.

"I don't know about that...," Daredevil said.

"Can I speak with him?" she asked.

"Well, he's not here right now, and I don't know how to get ahold of him," Daredevil said as he staggered from one support post to the next.

"It's just that – I think his life is in danger," Helen told him. "And it might be my fault."

Daredevil came to a halt. "What makes you think that?" he asked, keeping his voice even.

"I've seen some messages, heard some things...that make me believe someone might be trying to...to hurt him," she said nervously.

"You know, Helen," Daredevil said, "I think you might be right. Why don't we have a chat?"

"I don't know..." she began. "I don't know who you are. How do you know my – how do you know Remy?"

"We're colleagues," Daredevil responded.

"At the school?" she asked.

It took him a moment to recall that Gambit served as a teacher at The Jean Grey School. "We know each other through work," Daredevil said. "And how do you know him?"

The woman was slow to respond. There was a long pause.

"Hello? Helen?" he prompted.

She took a breath and answered: "Remy is my son."

* * *

*Daredevil #23 – DD takes on Coyote, who used his powers to aid the Juárez Cartel in muling drugs to NYC.

_Merci le bon Dieu –_ Thank the good Lord

_Fais do-do, Diable_ – Go to sleep, Devil. My mom told my baby nephew to "fais doo-doo" the other day, and I told her: "Mom, it's 'doe-doe.' Not 'doo-doo.' You're asking him to do something completely different."

Next time: A road trip with Jean and Remy. Remy's brain takes a detour into Angstville.


	29. Catching Up

**Connecticut, en route to Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Five Weeks Ago**

"I seem to remember you being a bit more...chatty," Jean pushed aside the silence that hung between them like a heavy curtain. There had been no words spoken for the last two hours as Remy navigated through traffic, finally emerging from the tangle of the city streets to join the Interstate. They had encountered the early morning rush-hour in Connecticut, and Jean could sense Remy's building irritation with the stop-and-go traffic. She waited until they were clear of the traffic before broaching the silence.

"I guess I've run outta things t'say since I seen you last," Remy said, his eyes trained on the road in front of him.

"This is a nice car," Jean said, looking at the posh black and tan interior of the SUV, the buttery texture of the soft leather seats, and the gadgets on the console for satellite radio, hands-free bluetooth, and climate control.

"It's not mine," Remy told her.

"You didn't steal it, did you?" Jean asked, half-jokingly.

"No. I'm...borrowing it. From a friend," Remy told her.

Jean glanced into the backseat. "Your friend won't mind that he left his briefcase in here?" she asked.

"I'm sure it's nothin' important," Remy said. "He works for de government."

Jean watched the side of Remy's face, looking for a hint that he might be speaking in jest. "So...tell me," she began. "What have I missed?"

If she could measure anxiety with a scale, she would say that Remy's had jumped from his usual seven-point-five to an eleven out of ten. Jean wouldn't have guessed it just by looking at his face, which was a passive mask. He even shrugged nonchalantly.

"Mmn," he said, raising a shoulder. "Coupla seasons of _Breaking Bad_...Gangnam Style... Crocs... Twitter..."

"What?" Jean asked, perplexed. Most of those words made no sense to her whatsoever. "No, not pop culture. I meant...important things."

"Oh," he replied and then paused to consider. "Okay. You missed a bunch of natural disasters. Earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, flooding, drought. Half of them weren't even caused by superhuman folks. Hm, what else? How 'bout world leaders? We got a new Pope. Seems nice. Oh, yeah. President's a Black guy. Name of somethin' strange...Barack Bin Sama or –."

"Remy, how can you not know the name of the President of the United States?" she asked.

"Dunno. Guess I don't pay attention," Remy told her. "I used to. When I was younger. I used to always be lookin' in de paper or watchin' de news to see if there were any stories about other mutants. Before I got to know some of them. Then I got to lose interest."

Jean shifted in her seat to face him. "I feel like you're avoiding telling me something," she said. "How about some news that's a little closer to home? Like what happened to the school?"

Remy seemed to mull this over. "It might've got blown up, or knocked over, or devoured by aliens. But that's par for de course. Seems back to its normal state. Or what passes for normal."

Jean was surprised. "I – I thought it was gone?" she said. "That there was no more Xavier School."

Remy shifted his hands on the steering wheel and sank back into the seat a fraction. He rolled his shoulders in a show of making himself look comfortable for the long haul. "Yeah...well, it got a new name is all. De school is still there."

"A new name?" Jean asked. "What name?"

When he didn't answer for nearly a half-minute, she prodded his arm with her forefinger. His lack of forthcomingness was typical, but that he was unable to answer such a simple and straightforward question was alarming.

"Logan changed it," Remy said, breathing out the answer as if he'd been holding his breath. "He named de new school after you."

Jean's hands fell limply into her lap and she stared at Remy dumbfounded. "He did?" she asked, her voice small. She thought she might have known that, but she was half-hoping it was a dream.

Remy glanced over at her, and then turned his eyes back to the road. He slowly smiled. "What?" he asked. "You're not flattered?"

"I don't –," she began. "I don't know what to think. That's so..."

"Sweet? Thoughtful?" Remy suggested, and now his grin was playful.

Jean rubbed her hands over her face. "It's...a lot to take in."

"There's a statue out front and everything," Remy said happily.

Jean groaned into her hands.

"Some of de boys try t'look up your skirt," he continued. "I looked too, but it wasn't anatomically correct."

"That's so not funny," Jean told him, and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. She slouched back into her seat and stared straight ahead.

"Well, you did ask," he was grinning, though as he glanced over at her, his smile faded. "You know, if I turned this car around, I could take you straight there. If de X-Men even heard a whisper of your name, they'd come running to your side. Welcome you back with open arms, no questions asked."

"You don't know that," she told him and she could tell instantly it was the wrong thing to say. She could feel his thoughts compress down onto themselves just as his mouth closed and his face resumed its impassive mien. When he'd spoken there'd been an undercurrent of jealousy in his thoughts, and perhaps anger too.

" _C'est vrai_ ," he said in a blasé tone and shrugged. "What do I know, anyway?"

"I don't mean to say...that is, I just need some time...to gather my thoughts," she told him, folding her arms in front of her. "I haven't been myself in a while. That's all."

They continued on in silence for some time. Jean stared out the passenger-side window not really seeing the scenery. Remy stared out the front window, a bored expression on his face. A few raindrops spattered against the windscreen. Remy turned on the windshield wipers and they squeaked across the glass. The sky above was gray with low clouds.

"What would you do?" Jean asked finally. "If you were in my shoes?"

Remy made a noncommittal noise. "I'm de last person t'ask for advice."

"Well, I want to know," she said.

"So you know what _not_ t'do?" Remy asked, and he smirked a bit.

"Maybe. It might give me some perspective," Jean told him.

He was silent for a moment. Remy pretended to think things through, though she could sense that he knew his answer the moment she asked the question. "I'd love de chance to start from new," he said.

"Could you be a different person?" she asked. "Just like that?"

"No," he admitted. "I'd just be me in a whole new venue. Without all de baggage. Without anyone knowin' who I was."

"You could just leave everyone...and everything you know behind?" Jean asked.

"I've had to do it before," he said. "I'd rather it have been on my own terms. Walked away before gettin' cast aside. If I were smarter, I'd of _run_ away long before."

Jean sat still for a moment, thinking through what she'd experienced during the last few months of her life, before she'd died. "It would have been easier to walk away. Knowing now what hanging on would entail. But I kept thinking that holding on to what little I had left was better than nothing at all."

Remy glanced at her. Of course, Jean was speaking about Scott. She might have expected sympathy from Remy, but his face was still a blank mask. Inside, she could hear him scoff at her; he thought that what she considered to be 'nothing' was a lot more than he ever had. He just as quickly snuffed the thought, shoving his scorn down with his jealousy and anger, to be ignored. He turned back to the road.

"Why aren't you at the school?" she asked, her voice light as she tried to ignore all that she was sensing from him. Though his mind was in turmoil, from the outside he seemed calm and unperturbed.

"Spring break," Remy told her with a wry smile. "I should be in Cancun, and not chauffeuring your _derrière_ across New England."

"You can be honest with me, you know," Jean told him. "It's not like I'm going to tell anyone. You're the only person who knows I'm alive."

That seemed to carry some weight with him. She could feel his consideration. But in the end, he seemed unable to come up with an answer, and that to try to voice his thoughts would leave him too vulnerable. "People come and go all de time. Nobody says boo about it. I just thought I wanted a break. Now I don't know what I was thinkin'."

"No," Jean said. "I don't think you do."

"Ain?" he said.

"I don't think I've known anyone who is so completely unaware of his own thoughts," Jean told him.

He frowned at this, his brows coming together in confusion. "What do you know about my thoughts?" he asked.

"I wasn't doing it on purpose," she said. "It's just that I haven't been around people in so long..."

"Stay outta my head!" he shouted with his face still turned towards the road, his hands tightening on the wheel.

"I'm sorry," she said, contrite. She turned to face forward, her hands clasped between her knees. "I'm used to feeling...connected. To everything. It's hard to exist in such a confined space."

Remy's jaw clenched and he winced. "Ow!" He put his hand to the side of his face. "Freakin' Daredevil!"

Jean could see he was looking for a target for his anger and frustration, channeling it all at Daredevil. "Take a few breaths. Relax," she said calmly. "Do you want some Advil?"

He made a sort of grunting sound in response.

"It was an honest mistake," Jean told him, speaking both to Daredevil's mistake, and her own infraction. She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed gently. She felt a shift in his thoughts again, the anger tamped down like gunpowder in a musket. She took a steadying breath. "Maybe you were thinking... by doing away with all the things that you want...you could reassess what it is you really need."

After a long pause, he told her: "Let's just not talk. Why don't we listen to de radio?"

He stabbed at one of the buttons on the console. The speakers came to life. " – _Can find me...A girl who'll staaaay...And won't play gaaames behind me..."_

"Eugh," Remy said and pressed another button. It had no effect. He pushed another and the music continued.

" _Then I'll be what I am...A solitary man...Solitary man..."_

"De radio's busted," Remy said, pushing each of the station buttons.

"I like Neil Diamond," Jean said. She started to hum along.

" _Don't know that I will, but until I can find me..."_

"Fancy-pants car that doesn't work," Remy muttered, trying the tuner.

"I think it's coming from your phone," Jean said and pointed to the blue light on the console. "See, the wireless light is on."

"Well, it can't be coming from _my_ phone," Remy said, pulling a face.

"It's okay if you like Neil Diamond, Remy," Jean told him. "It reminds me of my father. Neil was his favorite."

"I don't like Neil Diamond," he said irritably, shifting in his seat to try to pull his phone from his back pocket.

"Rem – ah! Keep your hands on the wheel!" Jean said as the car drifted into the berm.

"Would you calm down? You're messin' with my drivin'," Remy said, his phone now in his hand. He was looking at the face of it instead of watching the road.

"Remy!" Jean shouted. The SUV had started to drift into the high-speed lane. A car horn blared.

"Crazy Connecticut drivers," Remy groused. One of those Connecticut drivers breezed past in the high-speed lane and gave Remy a single-fingered salute. "I don't get these people. Always drivin' in de passing lane. Where've they got t'go in such a hurry? Dis state's de size of a dinner plate."

"If you aren't going to concentrate on the road, maybe I should drive," Jean volunteered.

"I'm concentratin'," he replied, holding the phone up against the steering wheel. "What de –? _Enh, zut_! Dis ain't my phone."

Jean reached out and pried the phone from his grip. She looked at the phone, which told her it was playing The Essential Neil Diamond. When she swiped her thumb across the screen to unlock it, she found the contact list to be full of names she mostly didn't recognize.

"Your friend Foggy's called you at least a half-dozen times," Jean told him and smiled a bit.

"Who in tarnation is 'Foggy'?" Remy asked.

"My point exactly. Why didn't you answer? You might have figured out a bit sooner that this phone wasn't yours."

"I don't like people callin' me," Remy said. "What makes dem think I want t'talk t'dem just at that very second? It's rude."

"That's how phones work," Jean told him. "So people can get a hold of you when they need to."

"I just use mine t'keep de time," he responded. "And order take-out. I like texting though. No one notices my bad spelling then."

"I wonder if Matt has your phone?" she mused. "Should I call?"

"I don't want t'talk to that jerk," Remy said.

Jean sighed. "Why didn't you tell him your suspicions about the shooter?" she asked. "About the assassin who killed...who killed my friend?"

"'Cause it's none of his business," Remy responded. "Let him chase his tail for a while."

"Shouldn't we be going after the killer?" she pressed.

"As long as I stay dead, things'll sort themselves out. I got precautions about dis kinda thing," Remy said. "I give it about t'ree days."

Jean shook her head with incomprehension.

"You seem to be a lot more upset about your phone than your attempted assassination," Jean said. "I have to wonder about your priorities."

"It don't do me no good t'get upset about de things outside of my control. I might as well curse de sun for setting," Remy replied.

"I think you sublimate your anger," Jean told him. "So when something insignificant comes along, like your uncalled for hatred of Neil Diamond, it becomes the straw that breaks the camel's back."

"Does dis therapy session come with a big bill? I'm about t'run into some money troubles and I don't think my insurance will cover it," Remy said, wearing a smirk of a grin.

"You're good at concealing it," she said. "Your anger. Too bad it's making a mess of your insides."

"My insides are fine. My Tantie used to say I had an iron gut," Remy said.

"It's probably cauterized," Jean said, leaning her head back against the headrest. He was exhausting her. "From all that spicy food."

"I'm surprised you've not got a palate for it," Remy remarked. "Bein' an immortal bird of flame, you should be used to de heat."

Jean adjusted the seatbelt so it lay more comfortably across her shoulder. She raised up out of the seat for a moment to stretch her legs. "I'm just incredibly sensitive to everything right now. I was only just reborn. I'm new."

Remy glanced at her. She could feel questions welling up in his mind. There was a vision of peace and clarity that he was holding in his mind's eye like a precious jewel to be treasured. He coveted the memory, though a part of him felt guilty for holding onto it. "What's it like, bein' dead?" he asked her, and she knew he was thinking of the moment he'd nearly passed on into the next life,* only to be pulled back. Though he posed the question in his usual light manner, she could feel his hopefulness and longing. His desire to be reassured that such a place as what he'd glimpsed was still there.

"I don't think I can describe it in words," Jean said. "It wasn't like anything at all, but at the same time it was everything. It felt like an eternity had passed, or that I'd been there for no time at all. It was so loud, I could hear nothing. So bright and colorful that I couldn't see. I was in a small space that went on and on forever."

Jean could sense Remy's disappointment. He wanted a simpler answer, not more questions. "Maybe it's different for everyone," he said aloud, but mostly to himself. He was certain he'd never see that place again.

"It is different," she told him. "It's not like being alive."

"Were you alone?" he asked.

"I felt...that I was connected to everyone, but at the same time alone. I felt like I was waiting for something," Jean answered. "Or some _one_."

Jean wished he would just tell her about Scott, and not force her to ask. She felt like he was being cruel by withholding what he knew. She could be cruel too.

"How is Rogue?" she asked.

Remy failed to rise to the bait. He seemed to be well in control over those emotions, as deeply smothered as they were. "I suppose she's doin' all right," he told her. "Imagine there'd be some uncomfortableness, what with bein' in a new job and all."

"New job?" Jean echoed. "What new job?"

"Up and joined de Avengers," Remy said.

Jean was taken aback. "That's...new. I'm having a hard time imagining it. It doesn't seem like her."

"She'd probably seem a much different person than the one you remember," Remy continued. "I tell you, I don't understand her thinkin' and I don't envy her in dat role one bit."

"I wouldn't picture you as an Avenger either," Jean confessed.

"I agree wholeheartedly, _chère_ ," he said. "When you look at them folks...I mean, what's an Avenger do, when he's not avengerin'? Bein' a scientist, or an inventor, or a lawyer, or leader. Businessman or a doctor. They all got their own lives. What's an ex-X-Man t'do when the Avengers are unassembled? Pack their little lunch boxes and send 'em off t'work?"

She pressed her lips together in a rueful smile. "So you're intimidated by them?"

He rolled his eyes over in her direction and gave her a put-upon look. "I know my place."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

He chose not to elaborate. Instead he said: "At de school, even if I don't consider myself a teacher by any means, I at least know what it's like t'be a kid. So I can offer up my perspective. Someone should learn from my mistakes, because Lord knows, I'm not going to."

"You're very hard on yourself," Jean told him.

"Do you think so?" Remy asked. "Because you might be de only one."

"Has anyone else joined the Avengers?" Jean inquired.

"Hm... Sam. Logan. Stormy was. But not anymore," Remy said.

"What happened?" Jean asked.

"She and Black Panther got married –."

"They did?"

"And now they're not," Remy looked at her. "She could probably use a friend. She won't talk t'me, and Kitty's got her hands full."

"With what –?," Jean began.

Remy shook his head and exhaled, turning his attention back to the road. "I don't think I can tell you all – I mean, there's a lot."

"You could just open up your mind to me," Jean suggested. "It'd be faster."

Remy pretended to consider this. "Or I could just leave you in de dark."

"I know you know what I want to know," she told him.

"Enh?"

"Remy! Why are you being mean?" she asked.

"I'm not bein' mean," he said, affronted.

"Then why won't you tell me about Scott?" she pressed. There, she'd said it out loud.

He was uncomfortable. "Maybe I thought it was better if you didn't know."

"Why?" she asked and nervousness made her heart flutter. "Did something happen to him? I thought – I mean, I _know_ – I sensed something happen to him. Something changed. For a moment, I was with him and it was like we were linked again. And then he was gone. He let go."

"He's not dead," Remy told her. "If that's what you're asking."

"I'd know if he was dead," Jean said. "He needed me."

Remy shook his head. "He doesn't need anybody."

"I was called back," Jean insisted.

"I don't know what t'tell you, Jean. He went off on his own," Remy went on.

Jean hesitated. "What about the other X-Men?" she asked.

"He took it on himself."

"What about...what about Emma?" Jean asked slowly.

"Let's just say dat possessed or not, attackin' your girlfriend kind of puts a strain on your relationship," Remy said. "Speakin' from past experience."

Jean watched the side of his face. He made an effort not to look at her again.

"Possessed...by the Phoenix. Right?" she prompted.

Remy nodded.

"Where is he now?" Jean asked.

"In jail," Remy said.

"Why?" she asked.

He hesitated. "For wreakin' havoc," he said. There was more he wasn't telling her, but he was actively pushing back at her now.

"Do you think we could pull over at the next rest stop?" she asked. "So we can have a proper conversation?"

"It's not too much further," Remy said. "'Til we get there."

"Where are we going, anyway?" she asked.

"Boston," he answered.

"Why are we going to Boston?" Jean asked.

"I got family there. I was gonna ask for sanctuary," Remy told her.

"I had no idea there were Cajuns in Boston," Jean said, attempting to sound lighthearted.

"There's Acadians all up and down de east coast," Remy said. "When de British kicked us out of Acadia, they shipped some down to Boston. A few stayed on. I don't know why. Mebbe they liked bein' cold. In any case, they're a bunch of weirdos. My daddy used t'threaten to send me up to live wit' dem when I was misbehavin'."

"Really?" Jean asked. "Can I meet them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're gonna stay in de car," Remy told her. "While I talk t'dem."

"Oh, I don't think so."

"Don't argue wit' me," Remy said. "You'll get me in trouble."

"Why?" she asked.

"For one, you're not a thief. For two, you're too English."

"I'm American," she said.

"Well, you look English. Your last name is de same as a kind of tea. They hate tea. They hate de English."

"Are you serious?" Jean asked. "It's been what? About two-hundred and fifty years? That's a long time to hold a grudge."

"We have long memories."

Jean blew out a breath through her lips. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Completely change the subject? Steer the conversation away from what's important?"

"Stormy hates when I do that, too."

"It would be easier if you just filled me in," Jean said.

Remy shook his head. "This puts me in a bad situation, _chère_. They wouldn't say 'don't shoot de messenger' if a bunch of messengers hadn't already got shot."

"You could tell me one good thing, and then one bad thing," Jean instructed.

"Okay...," Remy began. He was silent.

"I'm waiting."

"I'm thinking," Remy answered.

"There's got to be one good thing you can come up with."

"I got nothin'," Remy said, defeated.

Jean felt frustrated. She swallowed hard and had to close her eyes. Her eyes burned.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want t'be de one to make you sad."

"All right," she said, keeping her eyes closed as she leaned her head back. "We don't have to talk right now." She lifted an eyelid and glanced down. Jean covertly slid her finger over the face of the telephone, then pressed the play button.

" _Sweeet Caroline...Good times never seemed so good..._ "

"Gah!" Remy said, and the SUV abruptly swerved across a lane.

"Tell me what's going on!" Jean demanded.

" _I've been inclined...to believe they never wooould..._ "

"Turn it off!" Remy shouted.

"You don't want to talk? Fine, we'll sing. _Warm...! Touchin' warm...Reachin' out! Touchin' meee...touchin' yoooou.._!" Jean sang.

Remy pressed the volume knob to turn the radio off.

"I know all the words," Jean said in the silence. "I can keep going."

Remy inhaled and exhaled through his lips. "It's only a half-hour, maybe forty-five minutes 'til we get there," he said, mostly to himself.

" _Sweeeet Caroline_...dunh dunh dunnnn... _Good times never seemed so good! So good, so good, so good!"_

Remy squinted through the windshield at the traffic up ahead. "What de heck is dis?" he muttered and applied the brake.

"Looks like more traffic," Jean said. "Do you know _Forever in Blue Jeans_?"

"No."

"Well, you can join in on the chorus," Jean told him.

~ oOo ~

" _Shilo...when I was young. I used to call your name_... _when no one else would come...Shilo you always came..._ "

"How do you know all these songs?" Remy asked. It was now night and they were well within Massachusetts, trolling through the outskirts of Boston. Remy was navigating the city streets.

"I told you, Neil was my dad's favorite," Jean said.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked.

"I'm hungry," Jean answered.

"Look in de back. Maybe there's some food in de briefcase." He was hoping some food might stop the singing.

Jean strained to reach into the backseat. She retrieved the briefcase, sat it into her lap, and opened the case. "Some airline pretzels," she said, finding a foil package. Jean shuffled through several files within the case. "There's a file with your name on it," she said and opened it. She balanced the folder open inside the briefcase while prying the foil bag open with her teeth.

"You're nosy," Remy informed her.

"Why would a government agent have a file on you?" she asked, and picked a piece of torn foil off her bottom lip.

"He was helping me with something," Remy told her.

"Why did you steal a mail truck?" she asked, perusing the file while putting a pretzel into her mouth.

"I don't know," Remy said. "For de life of me, I can't remember."

"Really?"

"I don't remember a bunch from my childhood," Remy said. "Maybe I blocked it out."

Jean glanced at him, then returned her attention to the briefcase. She opened another folder. "Do you know who Honoré DesJarlais is?" she asked.

"No," Remy said. "Should I?"

"He's your state senator," She showed him a paper from the file. "He looks just like you."

Remy glanced over. "Nah," Remy said.

Jean rolled her eyes and shook her head, returning her attention to the files and her bag of pretzels. Remy turned off the city street into a well-lit parking lot. Jean glanced up to see they were in front of a doughnut shop. The glow from the shop interior fell across the hood of the car. Remy parked and unfastened his seatbelt.

"Stay here," he told her and opened the car door.

"Hey," she said as he slammed the door shut. She growled, tossed the empty pretzel bag into the briefcase, then shut the briefcase. Jean opened the passenger side door and climbed out of the vehicle.

Remy glanced over his shoulder at her. "Get back in de car," he said.

"No," she said. "I'm hungry. I want a doughnut."

Remy crossed in front of the car to stand in her path. "I'm serious. Get in de car. I'll get you a doughnut. Just wait here."

"It's just a doughnut shop," she said and gestured at the building.

Remy took her by the upper arm and guided her back towards the passenger-side of the vehicle. In the shadow of the SUV he leaned down and told her: "It's not just a doughnut shop. It's a front. All right?"

Jean looked at him skeptically. "So Guild thieves manage a doughnut franchise," she asked, her tone flatly sarcastic.

"I need t'go in there and make some inquiries," he told her. "I can't be seen with an outsider. People will ask questions."

"You could have just told me that," Jean informed him. "Instead of _leaving me in the dark_. I'm in on this too, you know."

"Fine," he said. "You want to play along? Good. You can be my cover."

"How am I going to do that?" she asked.

Remy reached into his jacket pocket and removed a velvet pouch. "Here, put this on."

Jean took the pouch from him and felt the weight of something inside. "A ring?" she asked and fished into the bag with her fingertips to recover the ring. She held it between her forefinger and thumb. "Where did you get this?"

"Never mind that, just put it on. No, not that finger, de other one."

Jean looked up at him as she slid the ring onto her left hand. She held her hand out to admire it. "Pretty."

"There, now you and me are just a coupla dummies in love," he told her. "Us against de world. Instead of me bein' a man hunted by an assassin and you, a runaway dead girl."

She regarded him him archly through her eyebrows. "Watch it, buddy."

"Is de honeymoon over all ready?" he asked.

When he turned she joined his side and looped her arm through his. "What's our story?"

"That you left your husband to be with me, your true love," he joked. "Our families would never allow us t'be together."

"Scandalous," Jean said.

"Yeah, it goes over real well with de clansfolk," Remy told her. "Try to look contrite, because clearly I've corrupted you."

"It's been known to happen," Jean said airily. "From time to time."

He smiled at her as he held open the doughnut shop door. " _Après-vous, mon amour_."

Jean entered the soft yellow warmth of the doughnut shop and filled her lungs with the sweet sugary air of fried dough. "My god, I'm starving," she said and made a beeline for the counter.

The interior was on the shabby side, the linoleum underfoot worn by the tread of many feet bound for the same destination as Jean. The overhead florescent tube lighting cast a yellowish pallor over the chipped brown countertop. A teenage girl was standing behind the counter, her jaw busy as she moved something around in her mouth. She looked at Jean with a bored expression, tearing her kohl-rimmed eyes away from the television hanging above the two small dining tables. She was wearing a brown and pink collared shirt and a brown visor.

"What can I get you?" she asked, her tone dull.

Jean pressed against the counter to survey the remaining doughnuts in the baskets behind the girl. There wasn't much to choose from, and what was left looked a little dry. It was evening now, and past the usual doughnut consumption time. Jean paused to consider. Remy came to stand behind her.

"I need t'speak t'Marcus," Remy told the girl.

The girl's eyes moved up and down Remy's figure. She became a little more interested. "Marcus don't work here no more," she said.

Remy paused. "What happened?" he asked.

"He got shot," she said and her light colored eyes flicked back to Jean, then returned to Remy. "We were held up a few months ago."

Remy looked concerned. "And they left you here alone at night?" he asked.

"Nah. Dickie's in the back. He's in charge now."

"Who's Dickie?" Remy asked warily.

The girl opened her mouth to reveal a tongue ring, which she clacked against the back of her teeth. It coordinated with the pair of rings through her eyebrow. "The night manager," the girl said, crossing her arms over her narrow chest. "You wanna talk t'him?"

"I suppose," Remy said. "What family's he from?"

She shrugged. "He got sent up here from down south," she told him and leaned forward. "And between you and me, he's a jerk. I can see why they wanted t'get rid of him."

"What –?" Remy began.

"Hey! Dickie!" shouted the girl over her shoulder. "Someone here to see you!"

The girl's eyes turned back to Remy and Jean. "How much trouble you in?" she asked, her lips smirking.

They were interrupted when the back door swung open. A man pushed through to stand behind the counter.

"Oh, _c'est fantastique_ ," Remy muttered upon seeing the man.

"Remy LeBeau," said the man, who was lean, tall, and bald.

"'Allo, Richard," Remy replied dully. "You're a long ways from home."

The man turned his sights on the girl. "If you call me 'Dickie' one more time –."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Whatevs," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Richard clenched his jaw tightly and then looked at Remy. "What de hell do you want?" he asked.

"Duh," the girl said. "What everyone wants when they come here."

"Doughnuts?" Jean asked.

The girl snorted. "This here's the last resort. A pit stop before miles and miles of nothing. Welcome to Last Chanceville."

"A word, Richard," Remy told the man. "Someplace private, mebbe?"

"Why should I help you, devil-eyes?" Richard asked.

"You're honor-bound t'offer sanctuary to another thief in your territory," Remy told him.

"Heh, honor don't mean shit up here. And you're just barely holdin' on to bein' a legitimate thief as it is," Richard said.

_Legitimate thief._ Jean thought. _Oxymoron._

"Mebbe we could work something out, to make it worth your while," Remy suggested.

Richard looked at Jean appraisingly. "Who's this?" he asked.

"Not part of de bargain," Remy replied, stepping in front of Jean. Jean took the moment to telepathically alter her appearance just slightly.

"Let's not take anything off de table just yet," Richard said, stepping up to the counter so that he could look more closely at Jean.

She looked up at him with crossed eyes and grinned, revealing oversized and uneven teeth. Richard took a step back and he looked back at Remy with an incredulous look on his face.

"You got somethin' t'say to my beautiful bride?" Remy prompted dangerously.

"Your standards have slipped," Richard said to Remy.

"De heck you talkin' 'bout?" Remy asked and glanced back at Jean. She gazed up at him demurely, lips pressed together; the perfect picture of angelic beauty. Remy looked back at Richard, confused. "There's somethin' de matter with your eyes, cousin."

Jean made sure only Richard saw her investigate her nose with her finger. He stared at her in transfixed horror, then shook his head as if to dispel the image. When he opened his eyes, he looked past her into the parking lot. "All right, let's negotiate," Richard said suddenly. "C'mon back."

"Wait here," Remy told Jean as he turned to leave.

"I'm not going –," Jean began.

"Give her as many doughnuts as she wants," Remy told the girl behind the counter.

Jean frowned at Remy as he lifted a section of the counter and passed through the opening. He followed Richard through the swinging door. Jean stayed for the doughnuts.

"Can I have one of those jelly-filled?" Jean asked and pointed.

"You don't want those," the girl replied and turned to face the wall of baskets. "They're stale. Have these instead."

She picked up a few cream-filled doughnuts with a piece of wax paper and dropped them into a white paper bag. "Here," she said, handing the bag to Jean. "On the house. I got to throw them out at the end of the night anyway."

"Thank you," Jean said, looking at the young girl. "Do you always work nights?"

"Yup," the girl responded. "Can't wait to be done running the counter though. It sucks."

"Do you suppose you'll be getting a promotion?" Jean asked, pulling one of her doughnuts from the bag.

The girl grinned at her, revealing her tongue ring again. "Heh. What, you mean Dickie's job? Watching over the Island of Misfit Thieves? No. I'm just here 'til the baby's born. Then back to my _real_ job and hopefully a transfer back to warmer weather."

"Baby?" Jean asked.

The girl tightened her work shirt over her stomach. "Yeah, see," she told her, turning sideways so Jean could see the protuberance of her belly. "Five months."

"Oh," Jean said, feeling awkward. The girl didn't look any older that fifteen. At a loss, she asked: "Is it a boy or girl?"

"Boy," the teen said and dragged a wooden stool out from behind the counter. She sat. "Your guy is hot."

"Uhm. Thanks," Jean said.

"How far along are you? You're not like, showing at all."

"I'm not pregnant," Jean told the girl.

"Oh. Sorry. But...then what's with the whole running away thing?" the girl asked and mimed running with her fingers.

"It's a long story," Jean told her. "Remy took me with him...when I left home."

"You're lucky. He could've ditched you like this one's dad did me," the girl said and pointed at her stomach. "What a dick."

"I'm really sorry to hear that," Jean said, feeling bad for the girl. She should be home doing homework or studying, not sitting in a den of doughnut-making thieves.

The girl shrugged a shoulder. "I'm thinking I'm giving it up for adoption," she said. "But I dunno."

"That's a very hard decision to make," Jean told her. "You're very brave."

The girl became shy and played with her tongue ring some more. She looked away from Jean to gaze up at the television. "Oh, snap. Checkit," she said and pointed at the screen with her pinky finger.

Jean turned her attention to the television screen. Her heart nearly stopped and her bag of doughnuts dropped to the ground. There was a news report on the screen showing grainy footage of an escaped prisoner...a mutant. The message across the bottom of the screen read: _Mutant Vigilante Cyclops At Large_. Jean was breathless as she watched her (estranged? ex-?) husband (widow?) dash across the screen, his arms raised to form an X as he turned to the camera.

_Scott? A vigilante? Showboating for a television camera?_ Jean's thoughts spiraled inward and she stared sightlessly at the floor.

"Woot!" the girl said and punched her fist into the air. "Yeah! He got out! Sweet!"

Jean looked up at the girl who was watching the television rapturously.

"You're – you're happy he escaped?" she asked.

The girl glanced away from the screen. "Well, like, yeah. Yeah, I'm glad. You know, some people say different, but the way it looked to me is that things were rainbows and lollipops and us all singing kumbaya for a while there. Then the next thing you know, blam! Fire from the sky. It was all going fine until the Avengers showed up."

"Really?" Jean asked, her eyebrows coming together in confusion.

"You know what I think?" the girl said and leaned forward over the counter, her face still trained to the television. "I think it was _Magneto's_ fault. I mean, what does that guy care about humans anyway? And him and mutants and us all living together? And the Avengers saw the Phoenix was all like, fixing shit and shit, and getting credit, and that Magneto was there with the Phoenix and the Avengers were all like: No. No way. Nuh uhn. We gotta take 'em down. 'Cause you know, it's _Magneto_ , man."

"I'm having trouble following you," Jean said, blinking rapidly.

"Well, that's how I saw it anyway," the girl finished.

Jean was spared from having to respond when the swinging door reopened and Remy stepped out. He glanced at Jean, then the teenage girl, then up at the television screen. He frowned. The news report had changed. The screen now showed the front of a New York bank building. FBI agents were leading men in business suits from the building and into waiting cars. The newscaster in the foreground was speaking soundlessly into the camera. The screen turned blue and a photograph appeared. The photo looked very much like Remy LeBeau, though the screen read: _Robert Lord_. Robert Lord was wanted for questioning in connection to an attempted coverup and theft at NABC.

"Dude, that guy looks like you. Like a super-dorky version of you," the girl said and pointed.

"C'mon, let's go," Remy said to Jean as he walked out from behind the counter.

"Man, you really _are_ in major trouble," the teen continued.

"Your use of de English language is worse than mine," Remy said to the girl over his shoulder. "Which is saying something. Go home, take that _thing_ out of your tongue, and wash your face."

The girl stuck her tongue out at him.

"Remy –," Jean began. He stopped before her and stooped to pick up her bag of doughnuts. Remy placed the bag in her hand.

"We can talk in de car," he said, and lead her to the exit.

Remy walked past their SUV, his hand still on her arm. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"We gotta ditch de Caddy," Remy said. "Too conspicuous. Stay here while I grab some t'ings from de back." He left her standing next to a late model Cutlass Oldsmobile that had seen better days.

Remy rummaged in the backseat of the SUV and returned with the briefcase. He handed it to Jean. He opened the passenger-side door and gestured for her to enter. Jean reluctantly entered and sat on the worn vinyl seat, the briefcase in her lap. The car's interior smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The cloth lining draped down from the ceiling, nearly touching the top of her head. Remy climbed in through the driver-side door. He put the key in the ignition. The car started with a cough.

Jean sat in numb shock as Remy steered the car out onto the street. "Remy," she began. "I saw, on the television..."

"Hm," Remy said.

"Scott is – he escaped from prison. He's a fugitive."

"So he is," Remy said.

"We have to _do_ something," Jean said.

" _We_ don't have to do nothing," Remy told her.

"We need to talk to him," Jean insisted.

Remy shook his head. "There's no talkin' t'him," he said. "Way I see it, you've got two options when it comes to Cyke. You can go to war with him, or you can war against him. There's no in-between."

"That's not – no," Jean stammered. "I can reach him."

Remy abruptly pulled the car over to the side of the road, parked the car with a screech of tires, reached over her lap and shoved open the passenger-side door. "Have at it, _chère_. If anyone's got a shot, I suppose it'd be you. He's all ready made it plenty clear that he don't want anything t'do with me. And de feeling is mutual."

Jean sat in the seat, looking from the open door to Remy. He sat in his seat, staring forward. A cool breeze blew in off the damp pavement.

"What aren't you telling me?" Jean asked quietly.

Remy shook his head. "The X-Men got split up. Ideology. Scott's side and Logan's side."

"I take it you're on Logan's side?" Jean asked.

Remy let out an impatient breath. "I had no interest in taking sides," Remy told her. "But I also didn't want to be sittin' out on dat rock they called Utopia and trainin' kids to be soldiers."

"And that's what Scott wanted?" she asked.

"I'm sure it's more complicated than that," Remy admitted.

"What else?" she asked.

"Are you gonna get out, or stay? 'Cause I'm getting cold," Remy said. "Either way, close de door."

She sighed and pulled the door closed, sealing them inside.

"Do you want to join him?" Remy asked. "Become a vigilante? Or fight him?"

"Neither," she replied.

"Then we'll just stay out of it 'til everybody comes to their senses," Remy said and put the car into drive.

"Where are we going now?" she asked.

"A safe house," Remy replied.

"Did you trade the SUV for sanctuary?" Jean asked.

"That, and some other things," Remy said.

"Won't your friend be upset about his car?"

"Probably," Remy said.

"What other things did you trade?" Jean continued.

"Nothin'," Remy answered. "Just odd jobs is all. Nothin' you have to worry about."

"I don't like the sound of that, Remy," Jean told him.

"Speaking of unpleasant sounds, why don't you sing that one song about Rosie," Remy told her. "That one wasn't so bad."

"Were you just going to leave me out in the cold?" she asked. "With nothing but a bag of doughnuts?"

"At least you had de doughnuts."

Jean sighed: " _Cracklin' Rosie you're a store-bought woman...You make me sing like a guitar hummin'_..."

The safe house was an apartment just outside of South Boston, in a three-level apartment complex painted an acidic shade of green. Remy parked the car out on the street, where it blended in well with the other vehicles. There was a short cement staircase leading up to a chain link fence that framed a minuscule lot of overgrown weeds. Remy lifted the U-shaped latch holding the gate closed and waited as Jean walked through it. There was a porch alongside the length of the house. The two levels above each had decks above it. It was dinnertime, and Jean could see the second-level lights were on. People were in the kitchen eating. Remy unlocked the side door and gestured for Jean to enter. She stepped into the narrow vestibule. There was gray industrial carpeting beneath her feet. A staircase stood before her, painted with shiny brown paint with rubber treads on each step.

"Top floor," Remy said.

Jean began up the stairs. She came to the landing and turned, then started up the next flight. They passed two doorways, each with a tarnished brass door plaque. Names had been written on index cards and shoved into the plaques. Both last names were French: LeMoi and St. Pierre. The third door had no index card. Remy unlocked the door and pushed it open. It moved ponderously across dark brown shag carpeting. He entered and Jean followed.

They were in a small sitting room with a tweedy looking brown couch, a laminate-covered coffee table, and faux-wood paneled walls. Streetlights filtered through the pair of dusty windows to their left. There was a hideous paint-by-numbers landscape hung over the couch.

Remy pushed the door closed and had to lean against it to get it to shut properly. He surveyed their surroundings. "Well, I've definitely stayed in worse places. Also on de upside, there's no dead clone in de living room."

Jean swung the briefcase and it connected with Remy's ribcage. He folded over with a gasp, clutching his side where she had struck him. The briefcase hit the floor and Jean raised a fist, bringing it down onto Remy's shoulder.

"Ow! Jean!" Remy shouted, jerking away from her as she swung her opposite fist. He caught at her arms as she tried to pummel his chest.

"You're an ass!" Jean said, choking on her anger. "You didn't even know him! He was a _person_! You don't even care that he was murdered!" Her anger had turned into tears. She slapped ineffectively at him. Remy had raised his arms to block her blows.

"He was shot right in front of me! I felt him die!" she continued, and turned away and put her hands over her face.

After a long pause, Remy said: "I'm sorry, _chère_. I didn't think. Why don't we just have a seat? We can talk."

"You don't want to talk," she said, and her words sounded sulky to her own ears. She wiped a hand across her face and walked to the window. She looked through the glass and the damaged screen. Across the street was an old factory building. It appeared vacant, many of its grayed-out windows were broken. Jean took a few shaking breaths until she had regained her composure.

Remy walked over to stand at the other window. They both looked out at the factory. There was still a little light on the horizon; a promise that the days to come would be growing longer. From the factory came a flicker of light. On the rooftop, a larger-than-life size plastic Santa Claus came alight. The plastic figure's suit had been bleached by the sun to a shade of orangey-red. Its hand was raised in a greeting. The apartment grew marginally lighter in the glow from the seasonal figure. Jean and Remy turned to look at one another.

"Is it Christmastime?" Jean asked.

"Only two-hundred and eighty-some shopping days left," Remy said as his eyes focused on her. His eyes seemed brighter for the darkness, glowing eerily in the dim room. "About what you said earlier. I was thinkin'."

"What did I say?" she prompted softly.

"About holding on to something – someone," he continued. "I know what you went through. Wit' Scott bein' changed and all. That when he came back after bein' in synch with Apocalypse, he was a different person. Colder. More distant...maybe mean. Ever' once in awhile, you might get a glimpse of who he was before...so you keep waiting and hoping that person will come back and be de same – and feel de same about you again. But people don't change back to what they were. You just have to accept that they're gone so you can mourn their loss and then move on wit' your life. Or you can hang around like a ghost in hoping that person maybe spot you out de corner of dey eye and remember who you were."

She didn't speak, thinking that if she interrupted, he may not continue.

"If that's de case," Remy said. "You may as well be dead. 'Cause it's no way to go on living."

~ oOo ~

Jean was crying. That was just what Remy was hoping to avoid. He had to think awhile about how far back he had to go to bring Jean up to date. It turned out she all ready knew about the deaths in her family. That she'd seen them go on to the next life. What she didn't know was everything that had happened after the Phoenix had left her.

"Why d'you suppose it left?" Remy asked. They were seated on the couch which sagged so much in the middle, they were sitting hip to hip.

"I don't know," Jean said. "Something happened on Earth."

Remy thought for a moment. "Maybe Wanda's spell?" he speculated.

"What spell?" Jean asked.

"The 'no more mutants' spell," Remy said. "Wanda and Hope undid it. Stopped de Phoenix with a new spell."

"Who is Hope?" Jean asked.

Remy rubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Ugh..."

"I'm sorry," Jean said.

"No, it's okay," Remy said, raising his hand. "I'll explain." Which meant going back further. He gave her a version events that heavily edited his own experiences since the Scarlet Witch had cast her spell. In truth, Remy's unwillingness to talk was not so much about trying to protect Jean from the truth. It was more about Remy not wanting to remember the things he would much rather not think about. He noticed that Jean never did ask what his role was. She was concerned about her friends and loved ones; Scott, Ororo, Logan, Warren, Bobby, Hank, Kitty, and Cable and Rachel. Remy was usually on the periphery of this group, like a hanger-on. His recantation of their lives was abbreviated because he simply didn't know.

"I don't know why Cable would take Hope t'de future. If it were me, I'd have taken her t'de past...where you all ready know what happened," Remy told her. "But I guess I don't really know what became of either of them."

Explaining Hope to Jean meant also telling her about Kurt Wagner and his death. Which is why she was crying now.

"Do you –," Remy began, feeling awkward, "do you want t'be alone?"

Jean had her face buried in her hands as she wept. She shook her head back and forth, then came forward to lean against his shoulder. Remy slowly put his arm around her. He wondered how he seemed to always end up in the role of comforter, and why he was drawn to it. Was he really that empathetic of a person? Most likely, it just felt nice to be the least miserable person in the room. Jean's tears meant that the questions had stopped. He was relieved in that aspect. Answering questions was not his strong suit.

"We can talk in de morning," Remy said. "You should get some rest."

To his relief, she agreed. He had to argue with her about the bed. There was only one bedroom in the apartment, adjacent to the living room. A short hall led to a small bathroom and ill-equipped kitchen. Off the kitchen was a small narrow room just big enough for two armchairs and a television set. Remy insisted Jean take the bedroom, that he wasn't going to let a lady sleep on a couch. In the end he agreed that they would trade off, she would take the bedroom tonight and Remy the next. He had no intention of following through on this compromise. He lingered at the bedroom door.

"I saw a market a few blocks down," he said to Jean as she sat on the bed. She looked a little shell-shocked. "I'm going to go get a few essentials. Do you want me t'get you anything?"

"Uhm..." she said and put a hand to her face, then dragged her hand through her hair. "Maybe a hairbrush."

"Okay," he told her. "I'll be back in a few."

Remy left the apartment and started down the street on foot. The night air was cold, but not as frigid as it had been in recent weeks. The street was lit in intervals by yellow streetlights. Remy passed several apartment buildings, all looking very much the same. Up a few blocks on the corner were the bright lights of neon beer signs glowing from a 24-hour market. He walked towards it. As he approached the market and the possibility of encountering people, he began to worry that he would be recognized from the news. Remy felt a flash of irritation. This was all Daredevil's fault. Remy had been given a chance to be a hero in the best way he possibly could. He was going to be a thief and one of the good guys at the same time. Instead, he'd been caught up and then chased down. He had a handle on the situation, he should have been able to wrap it all up with a neat little bow and hand it off to Denti like a gift. Then he could have gone home after a job well done, feeling good about himself for a change.

And then it would have been him on the floor with his brains splattered across the couch, dead with a bullet through his skull.

He experienced the strange sort of thrill that he'd had before. There were times when he came so close to dying he could feel Death's breath on his face like the air wafting from an open crypt. Not cold like the open graves up in the north, but sweltering like the above-ground burial chambers he knew from back home. Hot like Hell. Except in Remy's mind, Hell would be cold...like Antarctica. Remy shrugged into his jacket, his hands rooting in the pockets for warmth. He wondered: if he were the one who had died last night, how long would it be before anyone found his body? Would his corpse start to putrefy before anyone discovered him? It wasn't as though anyone was looking for him. Would anyone be sad? Or had he affected so few people in a positive way, would his death be like a footnote? He supposed that he should have made sure no one put his body in the ground. At the very least, they should cremate him. If anyone really knew him, they should know that was what he would have wanted. But he doubted that anyone really knew him, not that that was anyone's fault but his own.

Remy thought maybe he should call someone to let them know that he was still alive. Then he thought maybe it would mean more if he called to let someone know that _Jean_ was alive. He argued with himself for a bit, then reminded himself that he'd lost his phone and besides, it wasn't his decision to make. He couldn't make up Jean's mind for her, and if she really wanted to go back it was within her power to do so. He tried not let his own feelings, his own misgivings, get in the way of others living their lives. He didn't stop Laura, X-23, from going to the Avengers. Even as he watched her leave, he wanted to tell her she was making a mistake. But that was his own selfishness talking.

There was a reprisal of that particular scene when Rogue decided to take the same path. Remy could offer up his perspective, but only if asked and only if people were willing to listen. Rogue didn't do either. Instead she had come to Remy to tell him what he all ready knew, what she'd already told him in so many ways at least twenty times before; that she wasn't ready for a relationship or a commitment. Remy wished she had left it at that, instead of bringing him up to speed with her relationship status to Magneto; amicably dissolved as far as those things went. Remy supposed he was glad they ended things on a positive note, otherwise Magneto would have left Rogue a crushed corpse buried under a pile of wreckage. It was hard to keep the smile on his face when that thought occurred to him, when what he wanted to do was shake her and make her recognize what kind of man Magneto really was. But he was attempting to look sympathetic while Rogue spoke, be the friend she wanted him to be. So he nodded and smiled and hugged her goodbye. And though he spent years perfecting his mask with its trademarked grin, his smile became so brittle it nearly cracked his face in two.

Remy flicked his coat collar up as he entered the store. His arrival was announced with the ringing of a bell over the swinging door. The shopkeeper behind the counter glanced up from the magazine he was reading. Remy nodded at the man before moving down one of the aisles with a hand basket. He picked up a hairbrush for Jean and also toothbrushes and toothpaste. He reasoned that everyone would feel a lot more human after brushing their teeth. Remy also placed eggs, bread, milk, and peanut butter into the basket. As the shopkeeper rang him up, Remy spotted the daily newspaper on the lower shelf in front of the register. There was only one left, so he picked it up and folded it inward to hide Robert Lord's photograph on the front page.

The shopkeeper handed Remy his change. "Heeyawah," the man said. "Have a good night."

Remy paused, unable to decipher what the man had said. "Thanks?" he responded and accepted the change.

All the way down the street, Remy kept thinking: _heeyawah_. What did that mean? And people thought Remy's accent made him hard to understand. The people in Boston had him beat, hands down. Heeyawah. Heeyawah? Remy glanced down at the change in his hand.

"Oh," he said aloud as comprehension dawned on him. " _Here you are!_ " Then he laughed to himself as if he'd just discovered the answer to a very tricky puzzle.

Back at the apartment, Remy tapped on the door to the bedroom. There was no answer. He opened the door a fraction to peer in. Jean was asleep. Remy closed the door and turned towards the kitchen. He put the groceries away, then took a plastic cup down from the cabinet. Remy went into the bathroom. He flicked on the bathroom light and set the cup onto the sink. He put one of the toothbrushes into the cup, then brushed his teeth with the other. He went to put his toothbrush (the pink one) into the cup, but thought it was weird that his toothbrush should be touching Jean's (the green one). He opened up the medicine cabinet to put his toothbrush into the cabinet, only to find the shelves inside to have weird brownish stains and random stray hairs. He closed the cabinet and returned the toothbrush to the cup.

_Oh well,_ he thought and turned off the bathroom light.

Remy sat down on the couch and pulled one boot off, then the other. He lay back onto the couch, one arm above his head, bracing the thin pillow there. He stared at the water-stained ceiling for a moment, which was colored pink from the wash of light coming from the Santa Claus across the street. Then he closed his eyes.

He knew he was dreaming because the world was in black and white, but then reversed like a negative of a photograph. Remy was looking up at a white sky. Black snowflakes were falling from the sky like goose down. He watched them as they fell to land upon his jacket sleeve. His jacket was white, and as the black snowflakes melted, they stained his coat in shades of gray. When Remy brushed at the flakes with his hand, he saw that his skin was black. He found that disturbing.

As Remy looked around, he saw that he was halfway down a staircase. The staircase led downwards to a subway tunnel. To either side were black tile walls plastered over with signage. One of the signs pointed downwards. Try as he might, he could not read the text on the sign to know where he was going. Remy saw that the black snow was filling the corners of the stairwell and that footing was treacherous. He also saw that there was a man below him, walking ever downwards. Remy knew he was following this man, who was wearing a black coat and hat. Remy knew if he didn't hurry, he would be left behind.

The man slipped a little on the wet staircase and Remy rushed forward. Remy put his hand beneath the man's elbow to steady him. The man turned and looked up at Remy, a grateful smile on his face. It was Charles Xavier.

"Thank you," he told Remy. "But you don't have to follow me any longer. I'll be fine from here."

"I'll see you de rest of de way," Remy responded.

Xavier shook his head once from side to side and closed his eyes. His mouth still smiled, though he seemed sad. "You won't be able to go much further."

Remy followed him down the steps until they came to the turnstiles. Xavier walked forward, leaving Remy at the base of the steps. Remy felt his coat pockets as Xavier put his ticket into one of the turnstiles and then passed through it.

"I can't find my ticket," Remy told him.

Xavier glanced over his shoulder. "This isn't your train," he said. "You'll have to wait."

Remy walked to the turnstiles and stood while Xavier continued onward. "I'm coming with you," Remy called.

Remy glanced over at the ticket booth operator. All he could see was a white shadow behind a pane of black glass. Remy took a chance. He hopped up and slid over the turnstile, landing lightly on his feet on the opposite side. He dashed after Xavier who had all ready turned the corner. Remy could hear the rumble of the subway train approaching. Even as he ran, it seemed that the tunnel grew longer. He was going to miss the train.

Finally, he made it to the subway platform. There were people on the platform, huddling together to prepare to board the train. Remy saw a man he recognized. It was John Greycrow, also known as the Marauder named Scalphunter, but Remy had a difficult time thinking of him this way. Remy walked over to Greycrow. The man looked up from the ticket he held in his hands and turned as Remy spotted him.

"Are you going, too?" Remy asked him, confused.

"This is it," Greycrow answered. He seemed pleased.

"I knew it was you. De assassin who shot me...or the other me. De clone," Remy told him. "I recognized your work. A steady hand. You can put someone down without makin' them suffer. When you want to."

"I have seen mercy, but never known it," Greycrow told him. "I did my best to imitate it."

"Me too," Remy said.

Greycrow moved off as the train came to a stop. Remy saw another he recognized amidst those gathered to board.

"Kurt," Remy said and raised a hand.

Kurt Wagner's hair and fur-covered skin were white. When he saw Remy, his lips parted in a toothy grin. "Remy," he answered warmly.

"I was just talkin' about you," Remy said.

"My ears were burning," Kurt replied, and touched one of his pointy ears with a finger.

"Is this your train?" Remy asked. "Do you have an extra ticket?"

"I'm afraid not," Kurt replied and looked rueful.

"I lost mine," Remy said. He felt frightened and was certain it showed on his face. He tried to joke: "Maybe I should steal yours."

Kurt put a hand on Remy's shoulder. "There will be another train along...in time. Maybe you'll have your ticket then."

Then Kurt was gone too, walking towards the open train doors. He joined Greycrow in the train car. They sat beside one another. Remy tried to see over the heads of the other passengers. He saw that Xavier had all ready boarded while he was speaking to Kurt.

"Professor!" Remy called.

Xavier looked at Remy through the train window. His hand reached up and took hold of the overhead hand rail. His other hand raised in farewell. Remy saw that there was another man on Xavier's train car. He was seated and facing away, but as he saw Xavier wave, the man turned. Remy saw it was himself. His twin was on board the train. Remy saw himself wave merrily from the seat. His clone looked happier than he had ever seen himself.

"Hey!" Remy shouted and pointed at his clone. "That guy stole my ticket!"

Remy ran for the train doors as they slid shut. He banged on them with the heel of his palm.

"Give me back my ticket!" he shouted.

The train began to move. Remy jogged, then ran alongside the train until it passed into the tunnel and was gone. Remy peered down the tunnel. It was bright white and he couldn't see for more than a few feet. He had to look away. Remy turned and walked towards the line of seats along the wall. He sat on the plastic bench seat with his hands on his knees. He looked up at the digital clock that would tell him when the next train would arrive. The clock face was stark white. There were no numbers. Remy was certain there was not going to be another train coming for him. He'd had a ticket, but that ticket was gone. He sat and waited for eternity.

Remy heard the sound of an approaching train. He glanced up, but there was no train coming down the tunnel. Instead the train was coming from the opposite direction. He didn't think trains ran on that line. He continued to sit and wait. The train appeared on the opposite side of the platform. There didn't seem to be anyone on board. The train slowed and came to a stop. The doors opened, but from where Remy sat, he couldn't see that anyone had disembarked. After a few moments, the train began to move again. Remy thought he caught a flash of red flicker through the moving train windows. Then he saw it again, and again, and again, flashing through the windows until the train hove out of sight and the platform was clear. There was a single passenger standing on the opposite side of the train tracks. She raised her hand and pointed upward at the ceiling. Her hair was bright red.

_See you up there_ , he could hear her say into his mind.

Remy jolted awake and sat up with a gasp. Jean was standing at the end of the couch facing him, her face darkened by shadows, backlit by the soft pink glow from the windows.

"Why didn't you tell me Professor Xavier was gone?" she asked.

* * *

Next time: Little Remy goes to school.


	30. Time Flies

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Four Weeks Ago**

Remy floated out of a daze, barely cognizant of the passing landscape. From where he slouched in his seat in the van, Remy could see that trees had replaced tall buildings. He pushed himself upward and looked out the window. He saw that the scenery had changed. He was no longer in the city, but out in the suburbs. Remy saw large stately houses set back in neat lawns. Trees clustered in groups of threes and fives, skirted by aprons of fresh brown mulch. There were long driveways of smooth concrete leading up to garages with three doors or more. Each home was framed by a tall, decorative fence. Bobby drove the van through a picturesque town of cedar shingled and wood-sided buildings, their windowsills painted in crisp white paint. There were trees here too, dainty little trees on either side of the street along with ornate wrought iron lampposts. Expensive vehicles drove the streets.

_Where the hell am I?_ Remy thought.

The two adults in the front seat were talking quietly. Remy realized they were speaking about him as if he weren't there. He was used to that, his father and Tante Mattie did it all the time. Remy turned from staring blankly out the window to watch Storm and Bobby's interaction.

"We should take him straight to the infirmary," Storm was saying.

"He's not going to like that at all," Bobby replied.

Storm sighed. "I realize that Robert, but you seem to be the one who is able to reason with him."

"Oh, you know how he is, 'Ro. As long as you give him a couple of options, he'll go with the flow. When he's cornered and out of choices, that's when he starts to freak out," Bobby said.

"The choices he makes are not the ones I would have wanted for him," Storm said. Her voice sounded sad. "He does not seem to realize he deserves better."

"We can't live other people's lives for them," Bobby said and reached out to take Storm's hand. He squeezed it reassuringly. Remy could see that the two were friends. It was strange to see his captors showing compassion for one another. They both seemed...nice. Remy suspected he might be showing signs of Stockholm syndrome.

Bobby glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw that Remy was awake. "How you doing back there?" he asked.

"Where am I?" Remy asked sullenly. "Where'd you take me?"

"Welcome to Salem Center," Bobby told him. "Nice, hunh?"

Remy turned his attention back to the window. "Looks like Stepford," he muttered.

Storm turned in her seat to look at Remy. "I know you believe you have no reason to trust us," she began. "But we are not your enemies. We do not want you to come to any harm. We want to help you."

"I don't want your help," Remy said. "I can take care of myself."

"It looks like you're doing a bang up job so far," Bobby observed sarcastically.

Remy shot him a dirty look in the rearview mirror.

"Careful, you don't want your face to freeze that way," Bobby said and twiddled his fingers over his shoulder. Remy found his lap littered with snowflakes. They had fallen from Bobby's fingertips.

"You tripped me," Remy accused Bobby. "You made de sidewalk ice."

"This is New York," Bobby said and grinned at Storm. "You have to be prepared for sudden instances of inclement weather."

"How did you find yourself in the underground tunnels, Remy?" Storm asked.

"I found myself cold and wet," Remy answered.

"How did you discover the tunnels? Did you go there seeking shelter?" Storm persisted. When Remy didn't answer she asked: "Did someone send you there?"

Remy's eyes flicked to her, then away. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Allow us to help you," Storm pleaded. "I know you are frightened."

"I'm not scared. I've met worser folks'n you all," Remy snapped.

"Such as...?" Storm prompted.

Remy glared at her mulishly.

"Look, Remy," Bobby said. "What if we give you a reason to trust us? How about we call your dad? Jean-Luc, right?" Bobby glanced over at Storm for affirmation. "And your...uhm, Aunt?"

"Tante Mattie," Storm supplied.

Remy's heart seized in his chest and he sat up straight in the car seat, the safety belt pulling hard across his chest. How did they know his parents' names? His hands fumbled at the release for the safety belt. He freed himself and once again tried the door, frantically pulling at it.

"Hey, sit tight," Bobby said. "We're nearly there."

"Remy, what is the matter?" Storm asked.

Remy threw himself back into the seat, breathing so hard he felt nearly faint. "I don't know what you think you're gonna do!" he shouted. "If you think you're gonna ransom me or somethin', you'd better think again. You won't get one red cent, I tell you. I ain't even his real son! They don't give a damn about me! Let me go!"

Storm raised a hand. "We have no intention of making any threats," she said. "Or holding you for ransom. We only hope to reassure you. Would you like to speak to your father?"

Remy felt his throat constrict. "I don't know how that'd be possible," he croaked. "When he's dead."

Storm paused. "What makes you believe that he is dead?" she asked quietly.

Bobby had steered them off the main street and was now taking an access road lined with old growth trees. His blue eyes were watching Remy in the mirror.

Remy could barely force the words out of his mouth. "Because New Orleans is gone," he said. "That's where they lived."

Storm regarded him for a moment, then looked at Bobby. "New Orleans is not gone," Storm finally said. "Why would you imagine that?"

"It isn't?" Remy asked, hardly daring to hope. "It didn't get swept away in a storm?"

Storm shook her head. "No. Damaged, yes. But the city is still there."

"But I saw –," Remy started, thinking of the ruined hospital. "And de people aren't all dead?"

"No," Storm told him. "Many casualties. And the city is still healing." She reached out and tapped his knee in a reassuring way. "New Orleans is alive and well, I promise."

Remy nodded to show he understood but didn't trust himself to speak. What that girl, Alice, had told him was a lie. Maybe he could escape back to New Orleans. Maybe Tante Mattie could heal him so he could use his powers again. Bobby turned the van onto a driveway. The tall gates opened before them. Up ahead was a large building, the likes of which Remy had never seen. It had an institutional air, but with strange technological constructions and unexpected additions. Remy thought it looked like a mental hospital for elite space aliens. Remy stared at the building as it loomed before him. The tall windows reflected the pale sky like strange white eyes.

Bobby parked the van before the stairs leading up to the front doors. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed from the cab, reappearing at the side door. He slid aside the side door. Remy remained seated, waiting to see what Bobby would do next.

"Are you just going to sit in the van?" Bobby asked. "C'mon. Hop out." He held out a hand to help Remy down from the van.

"I don't want t'be here," Remy said. "What is dis place?"

"It's the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning," Bobby told him. "Let's get you settled in. Or would you like to check in with the doctor first?"

"Neither. Take me back to de city," Remy said.

"That's not an option right now," Bobby informed him. Storm had joined Bobby and they stood waiting. "You need some food and some rest. You look like you're about to keel over."

"We have a room for you," Storm told him. "We want you to feel welcome."

Remy wanted to shake his head, but it was swimming. Instead he just said: "No!"

"Oh for –! Get out of the van!" Bobby said with frustration.

Remy gripped the seat. "No! I want to go back to New York!"

"Don't make me come back there, mister," Bobby threatened.

Storm smiled a bit. "Remy, I know you are not yet an adult, but this behavior is childish. You are acting as if you were seven."

Remy thought that darkly humorous. When he was seven, he had shot a man point blank in the stomach with a handgun he'd stolen from a prostitute. If Remy hadn't seen the man beating that prostitute to within an inch of her life, Remy wouldn't have stolen that gun and he wouldn't have shot that man. Those actions were not those of a typical seven-year-old. So now that he had the opportunity to act as a seven-year-old would, he was going to. He pouted at Bobby.

"Fine," Bobby said. "We'll just leave you in the van." He made to slam the van door. Remy hoped he would. He could hot-wire this van easily.

"We cannot do that, Robert," Storm said, staying his arm.

Robert paused. "Why not? He doesn't want to get out."

"Because he will steal the vehicle," Storm said.

Remy turned his pout to Storm.

"Okay, you can get out on your own. Or. We can drag you out," Bobby said. "In front of the school, all the teachers, and students, and staff. They would _love_ that. Give 'em something to talk about for weeks."

Remy put his hand to the side of the door and climbed out of the van. His head spun and he broke into a cold sweat. For a moment, his vision clouded over. Storm put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from swaying.

"Well, he's not running anywhere," Bobby said.

"Run where?" Remy panted. "Johnny and Janie Whitebread's mansion down de lane? Back into to Crackertown?"

"Very funny," Bobby said to Remy. To Storm he said: "Maybe we _should_ take him to the infirmary?"

"I'm okay," Remy said. He was forced to admit he wasn't going anywhere. "I just want t'lay down."

Remy found the front steps to be daunting. One of the large front doors opened. A young woman with brown wavy hair stood at the threshold.

"What, another one?" the woman asked with annoyance. "I'm going to give Hank a piece of my mind."

"This is not Henry's doing," Storm said. She supported Remy on one side, while Bobby held him by the arm on the other. As the young woman stepped back into the foyer, Bobby and Storm shepherded Remy into the school. There were four teen boys standing just inside the front door. One of them looked like a younger version of Bobby. One of them had wings. Remy came to a sudden halt and stared at the blond-haired boy. He was a for-real angel. The four boys looked at Remy with curiosity. Remy thought about how much he hated being stared at, so he looked away from the angel and focused on the carpeted floor between his feet instead.

"But where did he come from?" the woman asked.

"This is something we can discuss when Remy is feeling better," Storm said.

"We're going to put him in one of the empty dorm rooms for now," Bobby said.

"There's the room I just got ready for the new student," the woman suggested. "Why don't you take him there?"

There was a curving staircase that led up to the second level. A trio of girls stood at the top on the landing. All three girls were blond and looked exactly the same. As Remy was led up the staircase, he spied them looking at him and he stumbled. For an instant, his chest had tightened in fear. But none of the three girls was Alice. One of the girls turned to her sisters and some kind of silent communication passed between them. They all smiled. Remy felt his face burn. Remy was winded just from climbing the staircase. Bobby had kept a firm grip on his upper arm all the way up the stairs. He now steered Remy down the hall and (thankfully) away from the three eerie blond girls. Bobby took him down a hallway nearly to the very end. Bobby stopped before a dark paneled door and pushed it open. It lead to a room at least three times larger than the one Remy had at home. He felt almost agoraphobic. They were facing a pair of tall narrow windows framed by dark red curtains. Before each window was a full-sized bed, neatly made with blankets in the same color as the curtains. The walls were a warm cream color, the floor dark wood. A nightstand and a lamp stood between the two beds. An open door revealed an empty closet. A second door led to a bathroom.

"Here you go," Bobby said, gesturing at the bed.

Remy eyed the second bed. "Do I have to share?" he asked. Sharing was something of a foreign concept to him, especially when it came to his personal space.

"Yeah, I don't think I could legally do that to another student," Bobby said. "Cruel and unusual punishment. You're on your own, kiddo."

Remy took a few hesitant steps into the room and then turned to look at the two adults.

"We will check on you, if you need anything," Storm said kindly. "In the meantime, you should get some rest."

Bobby pointed at him. "Don't trash the room," he said.

"I'll make no promises," Remy said and held his arms to his sides helplessly. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed. Remy gazed sightlessly at the empty closet, willing the two adults to leave.

Bobby and Storm looked at one another. Bobby shrugged and said: "Sleep tight! Don't let the bed bugs bite. Though if they did, consider it karmic retribution." He then closed the door.

With the door closed, Remy stood. He braced himself on the nightstand and walked to the other bed. He walked around the room, touching each piece of furniture and running his hand along the walls. He set the empty hangers in the closet swinging. There was a dresser, but the drawers were empty. Remy went into the bathroom. There was another door on the far side of the bathroom. When Remy opened it, he found there to be another dorm room. Judging by the clothes and shoes tumbling out of the closet, the posters hung on the walls, and the personal items scattered on top of the dresser and nightstand, this room was occupied. Remy wandered into the room, looking at the other boys' possessions. There was nothing worth stealing. He returned to the bathroom. There was a toothbrush on the countertop, presumably one of the other student's. The thought of having to share the bathroom made him uncomfortable. At home, his room and the small bathroom nearby was Remy's and his alone. Though he thought nothing of invading the privacy of someone else's home, Remy was possessive of anything that had been given to him. At one time, Mercy had tried to straighten his room. When Remy had caught her at it, there had been a fight. Jean-Luc eventually appeared to see what all the screaming was about. His verdict was to tell Mercy to leave Remy be. Remy thought himself victorious until Jean-Luc continued: _If the boy wants to wallow in his own filth, let him. It's not worth the fight._

Remy returned to the empty dorm room and closed the bathroom door. There was a small deadbolt in the door, so he locked it just in case one of the other boys thought to come into this room. He locked the bedroom door as well. Remy sat on the bed and pulled off his ill-fitting tennis shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and set it on the foot of the bed. He lay down on top of the bedclothes thinking he would just close his eyes for a short while.

It seemed that he was not sleeping at all, but floating in a twilight state where time stood still. He was aware that he was in a bed, but the placement seemed to change each time he rose out of the fog. Remy felt so cold he began to shiver. His hands clutched at the blankets and he wrapped himself in them. He curled up in fetal position in the center of the bed and convulsed with shivering. A moment later, he was sweating. He kicked off the bedclothes. At one point, the throbbing in his head became so extreme that it roused him to consciousness. Everything now seemed so sharply in focus it could slice through him like broken glass. He clutched his skull and moaned. The next time he revived, he was laying sprawled face-down on the bed. Now his neck was painfully stiff. It was still daylight out. Light streamed through the unshaded windows, blinding him. He found his pillow to be damp. His broken ear had leaked a trail of blood and fluid onto the sheets. Remy buried his head under the pillow. Now he was sweating again, but his body was freezing. He drifted on the bed; he imagined the mattress to be like an iceburg left floating out at sea. He fumbled around blindly, but could not find the blankets. Remy gave up, exhausted, and continued to float. Someone touched his shoulder and shook him gently. It must be Sunday. Mercy was trying to wake him for Mass.

_Go away, Mercy_ , he said. _Let me sleep_.

When Remy revived again, he found himself on his back. The curtains had been drawn and the covers were pulled up over his chest. With painful, stiff slowness, Remy turned his head and saw there was a glass of water on the nightstand. It had been left on a tray with two pills and a written message like one of the notes in _Alice In Wonderland_. The note instructed him: _Take these_.

Thinking the pills would make his headache go away, he put them into his mouth and drank the entire glass of water in one greedy gulp. Panting, he sat up and put the glass back onto the nightstand. His stomach instantly revolted and Remy was forced to dash to the bathroom. He fumbled at the lock and barely made it inside before heaving the contents of his stomach into the sink. Shaking, Remy sank onto the floor, his back braced against the bathroom cabinets. Remy didn't remember how he got back into the bed. Now he was sitting, his head and shoulders supported by the pillow propped against the headboard. He looked over at the other bed and saw it was occupied. There was another boy there and Remy now saw he was in a hospital room in Big Charity. The other boy was pale in the dimness, but Remy could see that his irises were red. Remy realized he knew the boy, he had seen him in the moments before he had time-traveled.

_You're not a boy,_ Remy told him. _You're an old man._

_Sometimes,_ the boy said and smiled enigmatically.

_What are you doing here?_ Remy asked. _Are you sick?_

The other boy nodded. _Nearly always,_ he responded. _This place is like a second home to me._

_The hospital?_ Remy asked. _But you can't stay here_. _The hospital was destroyed._

Now Remy could see that the walls were crumbling. The sheets covering him were damp and filthy. Remy lay helplessly on the bed, his head turned towards the pale boy. _Where will you go now?_

_The past,_ the boy answered. _Where it's safe_.

_But you told me to go forward,_ Remy accused. _It's not safe here._

The boy raised his hand. In his pale fingers he held the pager to call the nurse. _Help will come when you call,_ the boy told him.

Remy's hands searched the bed for his pager. He couldn't find it. He closed his eyes slowly. He wanted to ask the boy more questions. The Witness usually wasn't so forthcoming. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the dorm room. Remy sat up, bracing himself on his arms. He pulled his legs over the side of the mattress and put his feet to the floor. Remy picked up the empty glass and staggered to the bathroom. He refilled the glass in the sink and sat on the edge of the bathtub. Remy drank the glass of water in tiny sips until it was gone. This time, the water stayed down. He filled the glass a second time and wandered back into the bedroom. Somehow it was still daylight. Remy climbed up into the bed and knelt to look out the window. He could see there were students out on the lawn.

The sky was a soft blue with low puffy white clouds. The students seemed to be happy to be outside. He could hear them muffled through the glass, their voices raised in shouts and laughter. Remy rested his forehead on the window glass to look down on them. There were two-dozen teenagers, perhaps more. Some were playing a game of field hockey on the lawn. They were all dressed in matching uniforms, though the students could not have been more different from one another. Remy imagined that they must all be mutants. Remy watched the students run from one end of the lawn to the other, chasing a ball. Others stood on the sidelines in clusters of threes and fours, talking and laughing. Remy tried to imagine himself on the lawn amongst them, waiting and wanting to play the game, but couldn't picture it as a reality. Down below, a quartet of girls walked out from the shadow of the school to join the others on the lawn. Remy saw they were the blond-haired girls he'd seen on the staircase. He watched them as they clustered together, walking separately from the other students, content with their own company. Many of the other boys had paused to admire the girls, they were very pretty. Three of the four girls walked closely together. The fourth lingered behind. As if she could sense him watching, the girl turned her head to look up at Remy. The girl smiled. It was Alice.

Remy jolted with fright. The glass of water dropped from his hand to hit the mattress and then fall onto the floor where it smashed.

"Oh!" said a voice. "Are you all –?"

Remy let out a yelp and turned. The brown-haired woman he had seen earlier was half-in and half-out of the closed and locked bedroom door. As Remy watched she passed entirely through it as if the door was an illusion and not solid at all. Remy cried out in surprise and fell off the opposite side of the mattress to land on the floor. He hastily scrambled away to the far side of the room, his back coming up against the wall.

"Don't be scared!" the woman said and raised one of her hands. "It's just me!"

Remy's eyes were wide as he took in the woman's appearance. He had no idea who the woman was, but she appeared completely harmless and normal. "Are...are you a haint?" he asked.

"A what?" she asked, confused.

"A haint! A spook!" Remy clarified.

"What?" she said again, her arms dropping to her sides. "What? No! I'm not a ghost. I'm a mutant, like you."

Remy watched her carefully, thinking she was nothing like himself at all.

"I can make myself intangible," she explained and gestured at the door she had phased through. When Remy continued to stare at her blankly, she added: "I can pass through solid objects."

Remy frowned and began pulling himself to his feet using the wall as support. "I know what ' _intangible_ ' means," he said sulkily.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry I scared you. I thought you might still be asleep," the woman said.

"So you snuck in here to watch me, or what?" Remy asked.

The woman frowned a little. "You were very sick," she said. "You've been asleep for nearly two days."

Remy felt a jolt of surprise. It was shocking to think he'd lost so much time when it felt as if he'd only just arrived.

"I'm glad you're up," the woman said. "We were thinking we should move you down to the infirmary. But if you think you can manage some food and water –."

"I'm fine," Remy interrupted.

"Here, I brought you these." The woman was holding three paperback books in one of her hands. She held them out as she walked towards him. When Remy made no move to approach her, she stopped and instead placed the books onto his nightstand. "I thought if you woke up, you might want something to do," she explained.

Remy looked at the books. _The Great Gatsby,_ _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , and _The Scarlet Letter_ ; he'd read them all ages ago. At least there was no Steinbeck, that was a relief.

The woman gestured at the pile of books. "It's what the other students are reading," she said. "For school."

Remy returned his attention to the woman. "I can't read," he told her.

She looked surprised, then her expression grew pained. "You can't?" she asked sympathetically. "Oh...I – I'm sorry. I can help you if –."

Remy made an impatient sound. "No, I mean, I _know_ how to read! But the doctor lady said I shouldn't. On account of me banging my head."

The woman looked relieved. Remy felt angry at her. "I've read all those books all ready," he told her snappishly.

"Maybe when you're feeling better I can bring you some different ones," she said and reached to retrieve the books.

"No!" Remy said suddenly, thinking he didn't want her to take the books back now that she'd all ready given them to him. The woman startled. "I can read them again," Remy continued more evenly. "I don't mind de same books more'n once."

"Okay," the woman said, exasperated. "I'll leave them. Just don't do any unprescribed reading until we talk to Hank about your head. In the meantime, and if you think you're up to it, we could go down and get you something to eat. It's nearly lunchtime."

Remy was reluctant to leave his room. He was nervous about meeting any of the other students and particularly frightened to see Alice again. He wondered if he hadn't imagined her out on the lawn.

"Is there an Alice that goes t'school here?" he asked.

The woman blinked. "Alice? No...but do you mean Alisa?"

Remy's stomach flipped. "A blond girl? With red eyes?"

The woman shook her head. "No," she said. "Do you know an Alice? Where did you meet her?"

Remy shrugged. He was still frightened. If Alice wasn't out on the lawn, then he must have dreamt her up.

The woman frowned. "All right. I put some clothes in the dresser for you, and your coat is in the closet. If you want to get cleaned up and changed, I can take care of all this broken glass." She gestured at the shattered glass on the floor. "Be right back."

When she left, Remy moved to the dresser. He found undergarments and socks in the drawer. The closet contained dark trousers, a white button-down shirt, a jacket with the school logo on the breast, and a tie. Remy looked at the clothing with incredulity. There was no way he was going to wear those clothes. He found his coat on a hanger as well. Remy took it from the closet and returned to the dresser for a white undershirt. He doffed the blue tee-shirt he was wearing onto the bathroom floor, changed his shorts and socks, and returned to his jeans. After pulling on the clean tee-shirt, he looked at himself in the mirror. He could see his face was pretty much a mess, as was his hair. Remy did what he could with hot water from the tap. Usually, his hair stood on end with all the pent-up energy he retained from not using his powers properly. Now it just looked kind of limp and dirty. He tamed his hair with his fingers. Returning to the bedroom, he found the woman brushing the shards of glass into a dustpan. She stood and tapped the dustpan into a nearby waste bin.

She looked him over, and even though her mouth made a disapproving crimp in the corner, she did not comment on his appearance. "Well, if you're ready," the woman began, pausing to see if Remy might reconsider his choice in clothing, "we can go downstairs. You can meet my students. Oh, rats. I forgot to tell you who I am. My name's Kitty. You can...call me Professor Pryde, I suppose." She walked towards the door as she talked. She passed through the wood and Remy stared at the place she had disappeared. Kitty's hand reached back through the door and she unlocked the door, then pushed it open. Remy thought if he had that power, he'd never have to bother cracking a safe again.

Remy hesitated at the open doorway, looking down the hall after Kitty. She was putting the dustpan and broom into a closet. "You okay?" she asked over her shoulder. "Do you need some help?"

Remy slowly followed after her. They went back down the stairs to the ground floor. They passed down several halls with open doors that led to empty classrooms. When they approached a main hall, Remy could smell food. It didn't smell very good. Kitty ushered him through a pair of swinging doors into a large open cafeteria full of round tables, each of them surrounded by chairs. There were only a few people in the cafeteria, all of them adults. There was a lunch line with a food counter. Kitty led him towards the counter and gave him a plastic tray. There was a woman behind the counter. She was tall and dark-skinned with short hair. Remy glanced at her, then looked back at his empty tray. The woman was watching him with avid interest.

"Holy hell," the woman said.

"Joanna," Kitty said with warning in her voice. "Not one word."

"Look at him!" Joanna shouted with delight. "He's so adorable, I could crush him!"

"Joanna, could we just have some lunch without your color commentary?" Kitty asked.

"Aww!" Joanna continued. "Hey, half-pint! What'll you have then? A baby bottle?"

"Knock it off," Kitty growled.

Remy looked back up at Joanna, whose face was smiling with malicious glee. Remy looked the Amazonian woman over appraisingly. "Would you be willin' t'nurse me?" he suggested. "I wouldn't mind bein' bounced in your lap."

"Haaa!" Joanna said loudly. To Kitty she said: "Can I keep him?"

"Food. Now," Kitty answered and pointed at Remy's empty tray.

Joanna made a face at Kitty, then picked up a plate and ladled something onto it. The food dropped from the metal ladle with a splat. Joanna shoved the plate over the top of the counter in Kitty's direction.

Taking the plate down from the counter, Kitty turned and set it onto Remy's tray. Remy looked down at the unidentifiable contents. As if his life weren't Dickensian enough, he imagined himself as as an inverted-Oliver Twist: _Please, ma'am...Can't I have some less?_ "What is dis?" he asked.

"Joanna's specialty," Kitty said and put a piece of bread and a cup of Jell-O onto the tray, then guided him towards a table. "Tuna noodle casserole."

Remy's nose wrinkled. He sat in one of the plastic chairs and Kitty sat beside him. "Aren't you eatin'?" he asked her.

"I've had my fill of whatever Joanna dishes out," she told him. Kitty glanced up at the double doors when they opened. She waved a hand to beckon the four teenage boys standing in the open doorway. One of them, the one in red glasses, nodded at her before proceeding to the lunch line.

Remy moved the noodles on his plate around with his fork. His stomach was not feeling very agreeable. Remy saw there were peas amidst the grayish noodles. He _hated_ peas. Just the thought of one of those green pustules popping between his teeth triggered a gag reflex. Remy looked at his plate with despair, knowing he had to make some attempt to eat. He moved a noodle onto his fork, carefully inspected it front and back for any peas, and then put it into his mouth. Chewing and swallowing nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"Are you feeling okay?" Kitty asked him. "Let me get you some water."

She rose and departed just as the other four boys came to the table. Remy didn't really want to look at any of them, but he forced himself to glance up from his plate.

"Hey," he managed.

"Hello," said the boy in glasses. He set his tray down beside Remy's. The other three followed suit. There was the boy who looked so much like Bobby, he might have been his son. The angel sat beside Bobby, and the last boy was positively enormous. He had a small pair of spectacles on the end of his broad nose.

"Do you know us?" the boy in red glasses asked. "I mean, do you recognize us?"

Remy shook his head, then regretted it. His brain felt as if it were floating loose around inside his head. Remy shoved the entire slice of bread into his mouth and chewed it.

The boy looked a little relieved. "I'm Scott," he said. "This is Bobby, Warren, and Hank."

"Hey," Bobby said and held up his hand to wave.

"Are you de other Bobby's kid?" Remy asked him, his mouth full.

"No," Bobby answered as he lifted a fork full of tuna and noodles to his mouth. "I'm his past self. We're all from the past. Weird, right?"

Remy had to agree with that. He swallowed. "De past...? But, how did you get here?" he asked.

"Time machine," said the angel, as if this were the most mundane thing in the world. Remy thought he was joking. He watched as the angel applied salt to his food.

Remy turned to Scott, looking for some kind of real answer. "Professor Pryde told us you had an accident with your powers," Scott said. "And you transported yourself here."

Remy wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I – kind of. I thought I knew where I was going."

"I can't control my powers either," Scott told him, and pointed to his glasses. "Head injury. I have to wear these special lenses."

"Scott's brain damaged," Bobby added. "But you can hardly tell until he starts talking."

Scott wadded up a paper napkin and threw it at Bobby.

Remy felt alarmed. His hand stole to the back of his head, where it was still terribly painful. What if he was brain damaged too, and that was why he couldn't control his powers?

"Won't you get better?" Remy asked Scott.

Scott and Bobby were now throwing things back and forth at one another, much to the angel's annoyance. Warren picked the wadded-up napkin out of his plate. "No, I –," Scott began, as Bobby blew on one end of a straw. The straw wrapper flew off to hit the side of Scott's forehead. Scott picked up the wrapper and stabbed it into Bobby's Coke.

"Hey! That was on the floor!" Bobby said, fishing the paper out of his drink.

"Settle down," Kitty said as she reappeared. She put a glass of water onto Remy's tray. Remy pulled it towards himself protectively and chewed on the straw.

"You haven't eaten very much," Kitty said to Remy. Remy had shoved most of the noodles to the perimeter of his plate in an attempt to make it look as if he'd eaten some.

"I can't eat any more," he told her. That, at least, was the truth.

"At least eat the Jell-O," she told him.

Remy poked at the Jell-O with his spoon. It was green and there were things held suspended in it. He held a spoonful at eye-height and examined it carefully before putting it into his mouth. He didn't like it.

"Where is Jean?" Kitty asked, surveilling the other four boys.

Scott shrugged and stared at his plate, looking morose.

"We don't know where she goes," Warren said.

Kitty blew out through her lips, setting her bangs fluttering. "All right. You boys enjoy your lunch. I'll see you in English Lit. Remy, once you finish that, we can take you to see Hank – er, Doctor McCoy."

Remy looked over at the large boy who had eaten half his double-cheeseburger in one bite. "Not me," he said through his sandwich and pointed at himself. He swallowed. "My older self."

"Dis place is freaking me out," Remy muttered. He glanced up to see the three blond girls walk silently into the cafeteria. He swallowed nervously. "Who are those girls?"

Warren glanced over at them. "The Cuckoos," he said, as if that explained anything.

"Are they...triplets?" Remy asked, hoping that he would get confirmation that there were only three of them.

"No. Clones," Kitty said.

This was not reassuring in the least. Remy stood shakily. He wasn't going to protest Kitty taking him to the infirmary if it meant he would be leaving the cafeteria and the other students. Remy saw a little more of the school as Kitty lead him through the halls. They took an elevator to a subterranean level.

"Is everyone here a mutant?" Remy asked Kitty.

"Just about," she answered. "Some are alien."

Remy had to wonder about the logic of having all these mutants living in one place. It seemed dangerously exposed. He didn't think he would like staying here. Just because they were all mutants didn't mean he had anything else in common with them. As far as he knew, no two mutants had the same powers.

Kitty guided him to a room that had four cleanly made beds. The beds could be separated by curtains that hung from tracks in the ceiling. The room was cool and sterile. There was monitoring equipment at each bedside. Remy didn't like the looks of any of it.

"Wait here while I get Hank," Kitty told him and passed into the next room. This time the went in through the open door, like a normal person. He could see into the next room through a large glass window. Beyond was a lab full of testing equipment, vials and flasks, computers and monitors. Kitty was conferring with someone just out of sight. She turned and returned to the room. Remy saw a massive blue-furred form move past the window to appear in the open doorway.

"Remy, here's Doctor McCoy," Kitty said and pointed at the beast of a man. "He'll take care of you."

Remy could see vestiges of the younger Henry McCoy in the furry blue mutant that now stood at the doorway. Doctor McCoy regarded Remy through his spectacles. "Welcome to the future, my Cajun compatriot. From what I can discern from your perplexed – dare I say: _alarmed –_ expression, you seem to have moved outside the boundaries of your comfort zone."

"You discerned right, _mon frère_ ," Remy answered. "Dis here's de bright blue cherry on top of de crazy cake."

Doctor McCoy stood up to his full height and assumed an affronted expression. He plucked at the lapel of his white lab jacket. "Now, as far as physical mutations go, you yourself should know that appearances can be deceiving."

"Are my eyes deceivin' me when I see you've got some big ole needle there?" Remy said and nodded at the metal tray Doctor McCoy was holding.

"Ah," Doctor McCoy said and hastily put down the tray. "Nothing to be concerned about, my young friend."

"Good luck, Hank," Kitty said with an air of believing that Hank was going to need all the luck he could get.

Doctor McCoy waved her off. "Young Remy and I are entirely copacetic," he said merrily and patted one of the sheet draped beds. "Why don't we have a seat?"

"A doctor all ready looked me over," Remy said, not moving.

"Consider this a follow up appointment," McCoy continued. He beckoned Remy forward with one of his clawed mitts.

"I don't need no more shots. She already give me one," Remy continued.

"Doctor Reyes was kind enough to send over your chart," McCoy said, picking up a clipboard from his tray. "How is your ear?"

Remy touched his left ear. "Not good," Remy told him. "Alls I hear is ringing."

"Well that's something, at least," Hank replied. "Let's have a look."

Hank took Remy by the arm and shuffled him forward. Remy was subjected to much of the same examination as what he had all ready endured; the same prodding and poking and questioning. Hank removed a thermometer from Remy's mouth and frowned at the reading.

"You're still feverish," he observed. "Tell me, Remy. When you struck your head, did you lose consciousness?"

Remy thought for a moment. "I guess. For a second or so."

"Vertigo? Lightheadedness? Trouble seeing?" McCoy said, putting his massive hands around Remy's head.

Remy shrugged. "Some," he admitted. Remy thought about what Scott had said about his powers not working right. "You don't think I'm brain damaged, do you?"

"I think we should run a CT scan and perhaps an MRI to be sure," McCoy said.

Remy didn't know what either one of those things were, but didn't like the sound of it.

"Let me calibrate the equipment. I shall return for you momentarily," McCoy said and ambled off into the next room. Remy watched McCoy through the glass and saw the doctor approach a machine that looked like a giant tube going into the wall. There was a flat table coming out of it with a sort of cage-like thing where the victim's head should go.

_No way_ , Remy thought and hopped down off the bed as soon as McCoy's back was turned. He stumbled a bit off balance, catching the edge of the nearby table which sent the metal tray there tumbling. It hit the floor with a clatter. _Uh oh_ , Remy thought. He glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, McCoy was looking over at him. Blue eyes met red and a sudden and very obvious understanding passed between them as if they shared a mental connection. Remy was going to run and McCoy was going to chase him.

"Gaugh!" Remy cried and took off towards the door. He yanked one of the curtains as he passed by and McCoy ran straight into it. The curtains tore free of the ceiling and while McCoy fought with the fabric, Remy ran from the room. He dashed into the hallway and started down it, his shoes squeaking across the metal floor. He spotted the door to the elevator and chose instead to dash for the door beside it. He was glad to have found the stairwell. Remy squeezed himself into the space beneath the lower staircase and the wall and curled up with his knees drawn to his chest. The stairwell door was soon thrown open to bang against the wall. From where Remy hid, he could not see McCoy.

_Please go up the stairs, please please please please please..._ Remy thought with his eyes screwed up tight.

The staircase rattled as McCoy started up it. "Remy!" the doctor called. He muttered to himself: "That little devil...!" The door on the landing above was pulled open and McCoy passed through it.

In a heartbeat, Remy had squeezed out of his hiding space and was back in the stairwell. He scrambled back out the door and returned to the hallway. He pressed the button to call the elevator. When it arrived, he entered and picked the highest floor. The doors closed, sealing him inside. The elevator car began to rise. It released him at the top floor. Remy stepped off into a carpeted hallway. It was quiet. There were doors all along either side of the hall, a window at the very end. Remy went towards it. When he looked out the window, he could see an expanse of rooftop just below. Remy pushed open the window and climbed out. He hung from the windowsill before dropping a few feet onto the angled rooftop. For a moment, he thought he would lose his balance and fall to the courtyard below. He managed to catch himself by falling forward to grab at the roof's peak. Remy breathed in and out, trying to catch his breath. He then turned and braced his back against the wall. He looked down the length of the rooftop. He was along one of the wings. Ahead was another portion of the school that rose up two or more stories. At the top of this central portion was a sort of bell tower. Remy made towards it.

Remy had always been smaller than the other boys his own age. Called Runty instead of Remy by some of the boys who found out later they could've used Remy's size to their advantage. Instead of helping them and working as a team, as many of the street urchins did, Remy went off on his own. He could go places the other boys could not. Remy didn't spend too much time on the actual streets themselves as he did above them, hopping from rooftop to rooftop where he could get the drop on unsuspecting victims or stay high out of reach where no one could get him. Being up high meant being safe.

He was now out in the center of the wing, walking along the peak. Though the sun made an attempt to shine through the clouds, the wind was brisk and chill. It grabbed at his coat and cut right through his thin tee-shirt. Remy hurried towards the shelter of the tower as quickly as he dared. He pulled himself up onto a window ledge, then reached out to grasp the overhang of the rooftop. He dangled from the rooftop by his arms. He rocked his lower body from side to side, using his hands to walk himself out to the decorative masonry at the corner of the tower. Remy dangled over empty space. He put his toes to the masonry and used the stones as a sort of ladder to boost himself onto the rooftop. From there was a short but steep walk to the circular bell tower; like a gazebo set on top of the building with a green copper roof. He threw a leg over the cement railing and pulled himself into the tower. He saw there was a staircase leading down the central part of the tower. Above was a bell. Remy looked out at the landscape. There were a lot of trees, but all of them were bare of leaves. He saw rolling fields and valleys. Nestled in the landscape was the town they had passed on their way here, Salem Center. The landscape looked like a primitive folk art painting, like one by Grandma Moses. It was cute and quaint and not like anything he'd seen in his life.

Remy felt the wind blow a little more fiercely and he wrapped his arms around himself. He was startled when someone spoke.

"I see you have made yet another escape," Storm said.

Remy turned to see her hovering in the air just beyond the tower. "You can fly!" he said with amazement.

Storm smiled at him and the winds drew her forward. She set herself down inside the tower. "I command the winds and weather," she told him. She raised a hand and above the clouds began to move away from the tower, revealing clear blue sky. It became slightly warmer. Remy watched the woman with wonder.

"I caught sight of you from a distance and watched as you climbed across the rooftop," she told him. "I wish you would show more concern for your own well-being. My heart was in my throat."

"I didn't fall," Remy said. "I do it all de time."

"If you were in peak form, I would have every confidence in your ability," Storm continued. She let her cape fall over her shoulders and then moved back to rest against the cement railing.

"I feel better," Remy lied, and moved a little towards her. He came to a halt before her.

" _I_ would feel better if you would allow us to help you. Though I understand your reluctance. I was just your age not so very long ago, and insisted I could care for myself. But I was mistaken. I wish that you would not tell lies and run away. I would like to be friends." Storm seemed sad about this and Remy felt bad about disappointing her.

"Why would someone like you want t'be friends wit' someone like me?" Remy asked.

Storm pressed her lips into a smile. "Because we are so different?" she asked. "I am sure that is how it appears to you. But we are both orphans. We were both taught to steal, to survive on our own. We are both stubborn. We mask our true feelings. We each do things out of a sense of duty and honor. We would neither of us ask for help, out of fear or pride."

Remy looked at her warily. "Why do you think you know me?"

"When we first met, I was a child as you are now. It seems our roles have been reversed. Here I am, the adult. And you, the child who wants to return home," she told him. "I know you in the future, as the man you become."

Remy was still uncertain. "You know future-me?" he asked doubtfully.

Storm nodded.

"I'm surprised I lived so long," Remy observed frankly.

"Why would you say such a thing?" Storm asked.

Remy shrugged. He couldn't explain about the warring Guilds, about his betrothal to Belle, about the inevitability of his fate. He tried to imagine himself at eighteen, as a husband, a peaceful unity between the two Guilds, and couldn't. There was nothing, no future. Remy thought his days were numbered, that he was running out the clock.

Remy asked: "Where am I now? In de future?"

Storm shook her head. "I do not know. Another friend I seem to have lost."

Remy recalled the red-headed woman, dead beneath the shattered chandelier, her blood on his hands. "I'm sorry about...your friend. Jean," he said.

"As am I," Storm told him. "It is the uncertainty that causes me such pain. Not knowing... And that it was my own foolishness that caused her death."

"It was an accident," Remy said and his voice had returned to its higher childish octave, wavering. He tried to clear his throat. "It wasn't your fault."

"I should be so confident as Logan, and place the blame entirely at Sinister's doorstep. Sinister is a madman, a monster," Storm said. "If I could have seen with my own eyes..." She paused for some time to compose herself. "Remy. Did you see her? What was she like? Did you hear her speak?"

Remy shook his head. Storm looked disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he said again, feeling the dangerous worm of guilt twist in his chest. "You didn't kill her. It was me. I did it. It was an accident. I didn't do it on purpose."

Storm was looking at him. "What do you mean, Remy? Because you were there? You did not –."

"I made de explosion," Remy admitted. "The pale man was there, and Jean, and I couldn't control it. Everything just blew up. It wasn't you."

Storm's pale eyebrows drew together in confusion, then her face became placid. "I see," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

Storm nodded at him. "I believe you," she said quietly. "Please go back inside, Remy. I would like a moment to compose my thoughts."

Remy didn't argue with her, he wanted to vanish into the floor. He took the spiral staircase down the center of the tower. He reentered the school through a door at the base of the stairs. After the cold outdoors, the interior of the school should have felt hot. But Remy still felt chilled. He paced down a hall and found the central staircase. From the landing, he could see several floors below, all the way down to the foyer where he had first entered the school. It was called the Jean Grey School, Remy remembered. Jean must have been someone important. He shouldn't have told Storm what he had done. Now the whole school would know he'd killed Jean and they would all hate him, if they didn't all ready. Remy thought he should definitely try to find a way to escape, especially before the animal-man returned. Wolverine would kill him for sure. Remy started down the stairs towards the lower floors and the front door.

The cold had consumed him, it was a chill he could feel in his bones. His ear ached and he put his hand over it, hoping to silence the ringing which had suddenly become quite loud. Remy had reached the last landing before the foyer, where the three blond girls had stood when he first arrived. Remy heard a noise in his bad ear and felt a sharp pain. Wet warmth filled the palm of his hand. He held his shaking hand out before him and saw that he was bleeding again.

_Ow_ , he thought and mindlessly wiped the blood onto his jeans. He could tell that there was something seriously wrong now, warning bells were sounding in his mind. His fingers felt numb and tingled.

"What a mess you've made of yourself," said a voice.

Remy looked up into the red eyes of Alice. He sucked in a breath to cry out in alarm and found he could not. His body was trembling as if caught in an electrical current.

"Now, now," Alice said condescendingly. "Let's not cause a scene. It is not as if anyone else save yourself can see me."

Remy's skull felt as if it were splitting in two. He could not catch his breath; air wheezed in and out of his lungs. The inside of his mouth tasted sharply metallic.

"I am glad you've finally managed a moment alone," Alice continued. "Allow me to dissuade you from making mention of my name again. I do still hold command over your person. If you think to betray me, I shall remind you of the devastating effects your abilities have on mortal flesh...unless you _want_ to see your captors obliterated into bone and ash?"

"No!" Remy gasped, his hands clutched at the fabric of his shirt. He felt his chest constrict. He could simply not pull in enough air.

"Your placement here will benefit me," Alice continued. "There is still the matter of procuring a vessel for my dear broken Ms. Renko. She is so looking forward to obtaining one of the red-haired models. Strange that the fifth spare has not yet surfaced here."

Alice moved towards Remy, faster than an eye blink. "But thanks to you, I have learned of the young and inexperienced X-Men, brought here to the present. I should like very much to meet these promising students...well, two of them in particular. I would have you bring me the young Scott Summers and Jean Grey."

"I won't!" Remy hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. The world seemed strangely warped, the colors becoming impossibly bright. Proportions skewed and straight lines wavered.

"You will. It would be a tragedy to destroy this school and all the students inside of it. To waste such potential..." Alice taunted.

"No!" he cried. Remy gasped and all at once he felt his powers return to him in a rush. Alice looked surprised for a fraction of a second. Remy could register Alice's shock before she was ejected from Remy's mind. He caught her final thought: _How is he able –!?_

Suddenly free, Remy staggered backwards towards the staircase. In a moment of instinctual self-preservation, his hand caught out at the newel post, but the blood on his hand made his grip slip. He toppled backwards. Remy fell, hitting the first step on his shoulders and then tumbling over. He slid down the wooden steps for several feet, before he turned and rolled the remainder of the way to land on the foyer floor. From where he lay on his back he could see the landing above. Alice had simply winked out of existence. Remy blinked slowly, staring upwards at the ceiling. He was relieved she was gone. But there was darkness closing in on either side, fuzzy blackness that swallowed up the edges of his vision. For several moments, he could not control his limbs. They jerked and spasmed. He felt the tightness in his chest release so spontaneously, he thought he might have burst open.

"My stars and garters," said a voice, and suddenly Doctor McCoy was above him.

There was the sound of footsteps hurrying towards him, then Bobby (the older one) was there as well. "Remy!" he said. "Are you alright? Can you hear me? Hank, what happened?"

"I think he's having a seizure. Bobby, we'll need a stretcher," Doctor McCoy said though his voice sounded far away. "Now try not to move, Remy." McCoy put his hands to either side of Remy's head.

"You'll be okay," Bobby told Remy. "Everything's going to be fine." He moved to fetch the stretcher the doctor had requested.

"Bobby...," Remy managed, calling him back.

Bobby reappeared in his line of vision. "What is it?"

Remy tried to get the words out, but they sounded faint. The world was going black. He forced his mouth form the words: "I want my dad."

* * *

Next time: Rogue makes a terrible discovery.


	31. Coincidentally

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Four Weeks Ago**

Rogue and Wolverine spent hours combing through the rubble of Sinister's underground sanctuary, finding little in the charred husk of the former manor. Most of the building had collapsed onto itself, sucked down into a gaping sinkhole that was now full of mud and burned debris. They uncovered a trio of corpses. Two of the Sabretooth clones and one woman, her body unrecognizable from the burns she had sustained. They found the latter clone in the wreckage of the atrium, where Storm had accidentally caused the gas explosion. Neither of them spoke as Wolverine lifted the remains of Sinister's clone and let her body drop into the crumbling sinkhole.

The stable had been burned, but its foundation stood. Remains of metal bars and fixtures lay amongst the smoldering wood planks and beams. The mysterious engine which the young Remy had spoken of was no where to be found. Wolverine grew incensed. As they climbed back to the surface, Rogue could sense Wolverine's simmering rage barely held in check. Once they were safely free of the cavern and its mysterious monsters once controlled by The Mole King, Rogue spoke.

"It seems t'me that Sinister wasn't expectin' us at all," she said, her head lowered to watch her feet as she walked. "Not near enough clones, no army like what Storm was tellin' us about."

Wolverine was quiet, silently marching through the Morlock tunnels at a ground-consuming pace.

"So why did that clone come to the school, to leave us a map that would take us straight here?" Rogue wondered aloud. "It couldn't have been a trap. When I jumped Sinister back in the dining hall, the look on his face... Well, you could tell he weren't ready for company. He was like an empty shell. He fell t'pieces right then and there. Probably gonna pop up somewhere else, like some kinda demented whack-a-mole."

"Are you done runnin' yer mouth?" Wolverine growled.

Rogue's mouth opened in shock. "Go soak your head, Logan!" she shouted at his back, her voice echoing in the dank tunnel. "You think you're the only one who's got a right t'be angry? Ah'm mad as hell!"

"I don't give a damn about whatever the hell you think _you're_ going through Rogue –!" Wolverine retorted, not bothering to turn his head to respond to her.

Rogue interrupted: "You wanna stew in your own juices – _fine_! Ah don't see what that's gonna accomplish!"

Wolverine rounded on her. He pointed a finger in her face and Rogue's eyes grew wide with indignation. "Maybe we coulda saved ourselves a lot of time if you'd taken what we needed to know out of that kid's head, like I told you to. Instead of chasing our tails down in this hellhole."

Rogue drew back, sweeping her arm to knock Wolverine's offending finger away from her face. "Would you get a grip on yourself! You want me ta rip the thoughts right outta some little kid's head? What is _wrong_ with you?"

Wolverine raised his arms out to his sides to gesture at their surroundings. "Where's the engine, Rogue?" he asked rhetorically. "Where's this so-called 'tube thing' spittin' out Creed clones?"

"Ah don't know, Logan! Maybe it fell inta the sinkhole! Maybe it collapsed and we didn't recognize it! Maybe – Ah don't know – someone came and _took_ it! Why don't you stop and think about it for a second, instead of goin' off half-cocked!" Rogue shouted.

"That little kid is a goddamn liar! You know full well he knows more than he's lettin' on. He spotted you for a sucker the second he clapped eyes on you," Wolverine said. "You got sweet talked by some ten-year-old brat!"

Rogue sucked in a breath and spat out: "Why don't you get on back to the school, Logan? So you can get back to pantin' over that poor time-lost teenage Jean!"

Wolverine snarled at Rogue and his claws sprang from his knuckles. He stabbed his claws into the tunnel wall and slashed downwards, tearing loose chunks of concrete and mortar. Very quietly, he said: "Why don't _you_ call up your old fella Magneto...and ask him to turn himself in? Maybe see if he can be bothered to not kill any more humans while he's at it?"

"You can go to hell," Rogue answered back, her eyes narrowing. "You're not fit t'run a school. It's a mistake to leave you in charge of children."

"It was a mistake to ever give you charge of _adults_ ," Wolverine responded. "You can barely manage yourself!"

Rogue threw up her hands. "Ah'm done with you," she said. She walked past Wolverine and continued down the tunnel. She was shaking with anger. Rogue would like nothing more than to put her fist into Wolverine's face, but unless she wanted her arm in a cast, she'd have to wait until she absorbed someone a little more indestructible. Nothing was going to be resolved with the two of them at each other throats. And both of them had control-issues that weren't going to be resolved at this particular moment. The first thing she was going to do was to take control of this situation on her own. She was going to track down that missing Gambit-clone herself.

The problem with that mission is that she could not even track down the genuine article, the real Remy LeBeau. It seemed too strange of a coincidence that he should disappear at the same time his younger counterpart should arrive, or that a stray Gambit-clone should be wandering around making mischief for his maker. Rogue returned to Stark Tower alone, having left Wolverine behind. First, Rogue would try the obvious. A little voice in the back of her mind, the prideful one, niggled at her that Remy had specifically asked her not to do what she was about to do. She dialed Remy's phone number. The phone rang twice.

"The recipient's voice mail is now – full," said the automated voice. Rogue was then unceremoniously disconnected with a cool: "Goodbye."

"Goddamn it!" Rogue shouted and threw her cellphone at the conference room wall where it smashed.

"That was government property, you know," Tony observed dryly. He was seated before a computer where one would assume he was working, but he was not. Instead, he was watching _The_ _Daily Show_.

"As you are aware, our Congressmen and women are currently embroiled in a...spirited debate over certain articles in DOMA legislation," _Daily Show_ host, Jon Stewart, was saying. "A few outstanding members, such as Senator Rob Portman of Ohio, have recently come out in support of gay marriage. But others hold fast to their _values_ as this gentleman from Louisiana, Senator DesJarlais, has made perfectly clear. DesJarlais instead wants to strengthen the language...which if changed, would make mutant-human unions no longer valid or recognized by Federal law. Mr. DesJarlais, your statement?"

Jon Stewart's snarky countenance was replaced by a still photograph of Senator DesJarlais as the text from his recent press statement scrolled across the screen. "We cannot recognize marriage as a union between two people of the same sex...but certainly we have to recognize marriage between two persons of the same _species_. Mutants are not human. If you look at it from even an anatomical standpoint, that is, a mutant's body in some instances isn't even capable of a physical union with a human being. Take for example a mutant with toxic skin, that if one were to come into direct physical contact with that mutant, a touch may prove lethal! If we allow mutants and humans to redefine marriage as a union between two individuals of a different species, then we open the door to allow people to marry horses, dogs, and pigs."

"Turn that garbage off!" Rogue yelled.

"Relax, Rogue," Tony said, rocking back and forth in his desk chair. "It's a _comedy_ show."

"Oh, and Ah suppose you find that _funny_ , do you?" Rogue began marching in Tony's direction, fire in her eyes. "That part about mutants bein' like pigs?"

The camera had returned to Jon Stewart. The audience was booing and jeering the Senator's comment and Stewart smiled a clever smile. "Senator DesJarlais must have a valid point," Stewart said. "Clearly, it would take a lot to affront his sense of decorum, considering he comes from a state where _this_ happens on an annual basis."

The screen cut away to a packed street of Mardi Gras revelers, most of which were dressed in scandalous apparel. It was clear the majority were inebriated. Many of the females in the crowd had to be blurred out. The studio audience applauded and hooted.

Stewart continued: "Mutants possess an extra gene, known as the X-gene. A human-mutant marriage would bring a little something _extra_ to the institution. _Extra_ -marital, if you will. Not unlike the affairs that have come to light in DesJarlais' own office. Recently, his intern has come forward citing inappropriate conduct in the workplace."

The audience booed.

"You have to wonder what _other_ extra activities Mr. DesJarlais has been up to!" Jon Stewart said. "I dunno, maybe a little...late night bank robbery?" The faux-anchorman pointed his pen to the graphic over his shoulder. It featured a photo of DesJarlais beside a photo of a man that looked remarkably like Remy LeBeau. "Seriously, were these two separated at birth, or what?" Stewart asked. The caption below the photos read: _Everybody Loves a Clone_.

"Which brings us to other news...," Stewart continued. "The recent FBI discovery of NABC's rather prestigious clientele, which include several international terrorist organizations as well as the Mexican drug ring and head-chopper-offers known as the Juárez Cartel."

"Oh mah gawd," Rogue said, her eyes locked on the screen.

"Gambit robbed a bank," Tony observed lightheartedly. "And is now being lampooned on Comedy Central. Thank the omnipotent invisible godlike-being responsible that Steve never went through with asking Gambit to join the Avengers. That would have been embarrassing."

Perhaps this was the explanation for Gambit's sudden disappearance, though Rogue could not be convinced that Gambit was responsible for breaking into and attempting to steal data from an international bank, let alone work with a drug cartel. Rogue turned on her heel and started towards the exit.

"Where are you going?" Tony called after her.

Rogue didn't bother answering. She picked up one of the hand-held computer devices as she stalked through the conference room doors, letting them sweep shut behind her. Rogue would go to the closest point on that dysfunctional global map of Tony Stark's, the one that indicated there could be twenty or more Gambits scattered across the planet. The closest red blip had been in New York City, right here in Manhattan. She would start there, just to rule it out as a possibility. At last reading, the map indicated Gambit had used his powers in an alley between two buildings not far from Central Park. Rogue started for it, wishing she could still fly. Instead, she walked, holding the crystalline device out before her as she did. It took her twenty minutes to finally arrive at the place. She found herself standing at the entrance to an alley. People on the sidewalk rushed past and Rogue was forced to step aside so not to interrupt the flow of foot traffic. They alley did not look promising. She started down it. About halfway down, she found a doorway beside a dusty shop window. It seemed a very unusual place for a shop. She put her face close to the glass and used her hand to frame her eyes so as to peer inside. Rogue found the shop to be empty, but the sign on the door read: _Sorry, We're Open._

Rogue pushed open the door and a bell rang overhead. She looked up at it, then around the shop. Numerous clocks hung on the walls, all ticking at different tempos. The sound filled the small shop. Before the window was a bench. Newspapers were fanned out on its surface. Rogue picked one up, finding it very strange. It was an issue of _The New York Times_ , but there seemed to have been a misprinting. The entire paper was blurred out, including the photographs which were indistinct shapes in gray. Rogue set the paper down.

"Hello...?" she called as she wandered towards the counter. "Is anyone here?"

From a back room behind the counter came the sound of something being rolled across the wooden floor. A chair appeared, bearing an older man who was leaning back in his seat to peer through the open door. His expression was one of annoyance until he spotted Rogue. He must have found her appearance pleasing, because he suddenly smiled.

The man pushed his dark glasses up his nose with a forefinger and said: "Why, hello. How can I help you?"

Rogue came up to lean her hips against the counter. "Hi...Ah didn't know if y'all were open or not," she began. "It's a bit of an out-of-the-way place for a newsstand, ain't it?"

The man disappeared momentarily to stand up from his chair. He rolled the chair out of sight and then exited the back room. "I hate to muck up the place with a bunch of customers," he said.

Rogue returned his smile. She could not place his age, somewhere between fifty and seventy if she had to guess. Long white hair fell to the shoulders of the oversized oatmeal-colored cardigan he wore. The top half was dressed incongruously with the bottom half of his body. Jeans and Chuck Taylors completed his outfit. He was tall and thin, with an angular face. His mouth was bracketed by deep winkles, carved there over time by his sardonic smile. The man's eyes were shaded behind smoke-colored spectacles. The eyebrows above the lenses were colorless. His skin too was very pale.

"There's somethin' wrong with your newspapers," Rogue said and nodded back at the bench of newspapers at the front window.

"Oh? What's that?" the man asked.

"They haven't got any print on them," Rogue informed him.

The man's smile grew sly. "Well, you know what they say...No news is good news," he remarked jovially.

Rogue breathed out a single laugh. "It's a good thing Ah didn't come here for the daily news," Rogue said.

"Then what brings you here, my dear?" the man asked and crossed his arms.

Rogue spotted something behind the man that caught her interest. It was a playing card, stuck by its corner into the cork board on the wall behind the counter. Rogue's eyes returned to the man's face. "Ah wondered...do you know Remy LeBeau?"

The man pretended to consider, then bobbed his head. "I suppose I can claim I know him as well as anyone could."

"Have you seen him recently?" Rogue asked.

"He's been known t'pop in and out of here on occasion," replied the man. "You know, us folks've got to stick together. Birds of a feather and all."

Rogue paused to consider the man and the warm round tones of his accent. "Another southerner?" she said and smiled. "You're a ways from home."

"You can't ever leave home," he said, and tapped a forefinger against his chest.

Rogue decided she liked this strange man. "Do you know where Remy is? Ah'm lookin' for him." Rogue pressed.

"You, and a bunch of other folks," the man answered.

Rogue felt a rush of trepidation. "It's important Ah find him."

"I'm afraid you're about two days too late," the man said. "You missed him. He's gone."

Rogue felt a chill, as if someone had passed over her grave. "Gone where?"

The man shrugged, his expression was one of unconcern. "Ah, m'dear, why worry yourself about it? Why don't you have a seat and keep an old man company? Have a cup of tea, will you? Not sweet tea, though I'm sure you'd prefer it. I've found I have a palate for Earl Grey."

"Ah'm afraid Ah don't have the time," Rogue said.

"Time has no meaning here," the man said and gestured at the walls. One by one, each of the clocks stilled. Rogue watched as the pendulums came to rest until there was just one left ticking; a campy neon Elvis clock whose hips canted back and forth. The man glared at it until at last Elvis stopped his dancing. Rogue turned back to stare at the old man.

"Who are you?" she asked, feeling ill at ease.

"Sometimes I wonder that myself...," the old man mused.

Rogue took a few steps back from the counter. "Where is Remy?" she asked.

"You're a stubborn one," the man replied. "No sense in concerning yourself with what might've been. Leave the past to those of us who've not got much future left t'look forward to."

"D'ya think you can give me a straight answer?" Rogue asked, exasperated.

"I'm afraid all my answers come out crooked," the man said. "But if its straight talk y'want, I'd check tomorrow's paper. Gotta warn you though, the weather forecast's always wrong."

Rogue blinked at the strange man and then turned. She walked slowly to the bench with the daily newspapers. Amazingly, as she watched, the blurred images cleared and the type became stark black and white. Rogue picked up _The Times_. As she unfolded the page she saw a column in the left hand margin below the fold. The headline read: _Suspect in NABC Theft Found Dead._ Rogue's breath caught as she scanned the remainder of the article. The article read: _Found in his apartment..._ Her eyes flicked to the head of the page. The paper bore tomorrow's date. She threw down the paper as if scalded.

Rogue turned to look back at the shopkeeper.

"There's nothing t'be done about it," the man told her almost apologetically. "He's gone on to the next chapter. It's the boy that still needs you."

Rogue didn't pause to process the strange man's words. She flew through the shop door and ran back into the alleyway. She took off at a run towards the Upper East Side. She dodged through busy Manhattaners, her heart in her throat. Remy's apartment was several city blocks away. With her uncontrolled breathing and her frantic heart rate, she found she had a stitch in her side before too long. She was moving at a limping run, her hand clasped to her side as she gasped. When at last she reached the apartment building she threw herself through the revolving doors and into the lobby. Rogue crashed headlong into someone exiting just on the other side. She spun, failed to right herself and crashed to the lobby floor.

"I'm so sorry," said a male voice. "Are you all right?"

Rogue shook off the man who attempted to assist her to her feet. "Watch where you're –," she began, then looked up at the man. She registered the look of surprise in the man's eyes.

"Ro –," the man started, then caught himself. "Ah. I –."

"Do Ah know you?" Rogue asked as she climbed to her feet. The man was tall and square, with forgettable features and stern unsmiling countenance.

The man might have glanced away, almost guiltily. His eyes returned to hers. "No," he said. "But I know you. You're Anna Marie. One of LeBeau – Remy's...friends."

Rogue was instantly suspicious. Everything about this man, from his nondescript haircut to the polish of his shoes said "cop" to Rogue. "And you are...?" she asked warily.

"Carl Denti," said the man and extended his hand.

Rogue didn't accept his handshake. "And what's Remy to you?"

Denti paused to consider. "A colleague," he said at last. "Do you know where he is?"

Rogue rubbed her side. "Ah don't."

"I've tried his phone," Denti continued. "And there's no response when I ring his apartment. It's important I find him."

"Ah'm sure it is," Rogue said, with profound contempt in her voice. "What do you want him for?"

"You've likely seen the news reports," Denti said in an undertone. "I need to talk to him...so we can work out a plan to clear up this misunderstanding."

"He's never made mention of you," Rogue accused.

Denti managed to look surprised. "No?" he said. "He never said anything to you about – about what he was working on?"

Rogue slowly shook her head.

"Oh," Denti said, nonplussed. "Only I thought you and he were... I suppose when I told him this was confidential I still assumed he would have...let you in."

"He hasn't told me anything," Rogue said hotly. "About you, or what it is he was doin', or why he's now on national television for robbin' a bank!"

Denti took her arm and pulled her aside as the lobby security guard's attention was now focused on them. He raised a hand to stay her protest. "Let's see if we can find him," Denti said levelly. "And we can clear up this mess."

Rogue jerked her arm free of Denti's grip. "Why should Ah believe a word you say?" she asked. "How do Ah know you're not some cop after him?"

"I promise you, I'm not a cop," Denti replied.

"Then who are you?"

"A Congressional staffer," Denti said. "Chief Investigator, Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs. Gambit was helping me uncover a money laundering operation within NABC."

Rogue's eyes widened a bit. "Are you serious?"

"He interrupted a robbery, preventing the thieves from making off with thousands of names and the contact information for other crime organizations using NABC to launder their funds," Denti said.

"Ah had no idea," Rogue said, flummoxed.

"Do you think you can let me into his apartment?" Denti asked. "He has my briefcase, my laptop."

Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't have a key."

Denti raised a hand to scratch his temple in a brief sign of nervousness. "Oh," he said.

"We can ask the security guard," Rogue said and pointed. "Let's go."

Denti moved to stop her. "Does the guard know you?"

"No, but it's important! Someone is gonna try to kill him!"

"The security guard?" Denti asked, confused.

"No!" Rogue shouted. "Remy!"

Denti looked alarmed. He glanced up at the security guard, then looked to the elevators. There was a woman there waiting. She held a bucket with cleaning supplies inside. Denti nodded his head in the cleaning-woman's direction, indicating that he and Rogue should follow her. Rogue nodded her understanding. The two joined the woman at the elevator. She glanced back at them and smiled. She was a thin, lanky woman with blond hair pulled back into a long, long ponytail. Her eyes were made large by her thick round spectacles.

"Eostre has gifted us with the promise of a glorious spring," the woman told them in an airy sort of voice.

Rogue and Denti regarded one another, confused.

"It's a nice day," Denti commented.

The woman beamed at him. The elevator arrived and she stepped aboard. Rogue and Denti followed. The woman pressed the button that would take them to one of the upper floors.

"D'you know where we're goin?" Rogue asked Denti.

"He's in apartment 424B," Denti told her.

The woman holding the cleaning products glanced up at them. "Oh! Are you friends of Remy's?" she asked. "Only I'm going to water his plants for him just now. How fortunate we should arrive at the same time!"

Rogue felt a flash of concern. "Who are you?"

The woman smiled. "I'm Aspen. Remy hired me to clean his apartment while he's away. Oh, I recognize you now! From the photograph he had in his apartment. You and Remy share a powerful bond." The woman nodded sagely.

Rogue thought she had enough of strange people making unfathomable comments for the day. Thankfully, the elevator arrived at the appointed floor. The oddly matched trio disembarked. Aspen hummed to herself as they walked down the carpeted hallway. She stopped before an apartment door and removed a key from her coat pocket.

"He's done some aggressive spring cleaning," Aspen said with a watery smile. "I didn't let him get rid of _everything_. I put some things aside, pictures, mementos and the like. Maybe you could hold onto them for him...until he's feeling more spiritually balanced?"

"Uhm...," Rogue began.

Aspen unlocked and opened the door. "I put them in – agh! Oh, no! No!"

The woman was staring into the apartment, her hand at her throat. The bucket of cleaning products dropped to the ground with a clatter. Aspen screamed wordlessly as she looked through the doorway. Rogue nearly threw her aside in a panic, terrified at what she was going to see on the other side of that door. Somehow she knew what she would find. The scene before her looked staged, as if it had been created for a movie. It was hard to believe it was real. Rogue could no longer hear Aspen's cries or the words that Denti was saying to her. She felt Denti's hand clutch at her arm, but she brushed him off as she entered the apartment.

There was a body on the floor. It was lying on its back, its head turned away from the door to face the couch. There was a spray of blood on the sheet draped over the couch. It had darkened to a rusty brown. A large thick pool of congealed blood was on the hardwood floor just outside the perimeter of the decorative rug. The rug itself may have at one time had a pattern, but that pattern was lost for all the blood saturating the weave. Rogue walked towards the figure slowly, feeling as if she was moving through molasses. She was now standing over the body, looking at, but not seeing the still form. She might have fallen or she might have sunk slowly to her knees, it seemed that time could not be measured. Rogue knew without doubt that the man was dead and that there was nothing that she could do, but still she reached out and grasped the hand that lay across the man's stomach. The flesh was cold.

Rogue felt Denti's hands clasp her upper arms. He lifted her and pulled her away from the corpse. Rogue heard a strange sound, and she realized she'd been hearing it for several moments. It was a sort of moaning noise. She realized it was coming from her. She tried to fight Denti off, but he held her firmly. He gave her a brief shake.

"Rogue," he said, and his voice floated to her as if coming across a great dark void. "Rogue, stop. Don't touch anything. Do you understand? Rogue?"

Rogue could not take her eyes from the body. She recognized Remy's shape on the floor. The hand she had touched was now laying palm up on the carpet. Rogue saw there was a handgun on the carpet as well, near his hand. Her eyes moved up the arm, to the head that was turned aside. She could see he had been killed by a bullet.

Denti had moved back into the hallway. He was speaking to the cleaning-woman. Rogue realized she was cold. The whole apartment was cold. The window was open. The window was broken. Glass was on the floor, mixed in with the blood. Remy was dead.

_Say goodbye, like for good. I don't want to see you anymore._

Was that the last thing he'd said to her? she wondered.

_You know I still love you, right?_

She'd been exasperated and angry with him at the time. She'd always felt one extreme or another when it came to Remy LeBeau.

Denti was carefully moving around the periphery of the apartment. He was putting his phone to his ear.

"What are you doing?" Rogue asked dully.

Denti glanced up at her. "I'm calling the police," he said. "Watch where you put your feet. We don't want to compromise the scene."

Rogue looked down at her feet. "What?" she asked, failing to understand his words.

Denti was suddenly standing beside her. "I know this isn't easy, but I need you to focus right now. Why don't you wait in the hall until the police arrive? We can't risk interfering with an investigation."

"An investigation?" Rogue echoed, looking up into Denti's dark eyes. "Into what?"

He looked at her, perplexed. "Rogue, a man has been murdered."

Rogue gestured weakly at the gun beside the body. "Murdered? But he –." She couldn't finish the sentence.

Denti looked down at the gun, then returned his gaze to Rogue. "Remy did not kill himself," Denti told her. He took a pace away from her and indicated the sweep of blood across the wood floor. "Someone entered through the window. And slipped in the blood. There was a struggle – here. Two people fought. You can see the glass has been scattered...nearly all the way into the kitchen."

Rogue watched Denti's hands move as he spoke. She then looked at the evidence on the floor. Denti passed behind her and she turned to watch him. "Another person was standing here," he said, and crouched. "She was hurt."

"She?" Rogue asked.

Denti indicated a portion of a bloody footprint. "She was bleeding. The trail leads from the bedroom."

Rogue's heart was beating very fast. "But who?" she asked.

"We'll have the guard at the desk check the security cameras," Denti said.

"Ah thought you weren't a cop?" Rogue asked.

"I'm not," Denti replied. "But I was with the FBI for many years. Super-human affairs. That's how I met Gambit."

Rogue's gaze returned to the body at her feet. She could now see the bloody footprints of the mysterious woman. She noticed that the corpse's feet were bare as well, bare and dirty. She crouched.

"Where are his shoes?" Rogue asked.

"More importantly, where is his coat?" Denti asked. "I don't think I've ever seen him without it."

Rogue's gaze traveled up the length of the body's legs, to his stomach and chest and finally to his face. As she reached out with a trembling hand, she knelt. She could feel blood saturate the knee of her uniform.

"Rogue," Denti warned, but she ignored him.

Her hand moved to the corpse's mouth. She touched his lips briefly, then drew her hand away.

"That's not Remy," she said and all at once she began to shake. "That's not him."

"What do you mean?" Denti asked. "How can –?"

Rogue ran her hands over each pocket on the corpse's trousers.

"What are you looking for?" Denti asked.

Rogue hurriedly rocked back on her heels then rose to her feet. Denti moved to steady her. Rogue shook her head from side to side. "Remy's teeth are straight...because he has – _had –_ braces when he was a boy." She nodded at the corpse. "His teeth are crooked. That's not Remy. That's a clone. If Ah'm right, it's the clone that stole a bunch of files from S.H.I.E.L.D." Rogue rubbed her hands over her face, finding her cheeks wet. She rubbed her forearm across her eyes. "But he doesn't have 'em now."

"What could he have been doing here?" Denti asked, looking at the body more critically.

"Ah don't know," Rogue answered and indicated one of the bloody footprints with the toe of her boot. "But he didn't come alone."

Denti skirted the body to bring himself to the broken window. He looked up at the adjacent building. "The bullet came from up there," Denti said and directed his finger to trace the trajectory of the bullet in the air. He pointed down at the clone. "He was shot through the top of the skull. An assassination...?"

"But that doesn't make sense," Rogue said. "What about this struggle, here on the floor? Someone slid in the blood, which means the clone was dead before the fight happened."

Denti shook his head, at a loss. They could hear feet approaching from the hall. Denti quickly stepped away from the window. Rogue joined him at the open doorway. Uniformed and plain clothes law enforcement had arrived. "We're in for a round of questioning," Denti told her.

"Who would've killed that clone? Maybe someone thinkin' he was Remy?" Rogue speculated.

"If I had to guess, I would say the Juárez Cartel may be responsible. But this kind of assassination is not their usual M.O.," Denti said. "They usually use their killings to send a very public and brutal message. This was done cleanly. Not out of revenge or retaliation."

"Then why?"

"Perhaps to keep Gambit silent," Denti said darkly. "Or take him out of the picture."

Rogue regarded Denti critically. "What do you know?" she asked warily.

Denti shook his head. "I really need my laptop back."

"You could use the computers at Stark Tower," Rogue told him.

"I had a very specific set of files I needed to –," Denti began, then interrupted himself. "Did you mention...S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Rogue gave a nod. "The clone made off with some files for Sinister," she told Denti.

Denti gave her a considering look. "The insane geneticist? They wouldn't have had anything to do with the Black Womb Project?"

Rogue paused. "How did –."

"Do you think you could consult those files for me?" he asked. "I need information on a name."

"What name is that?"

"Moreux."

"That sounds familiar," Rogue said, trying to puzzle out where she had heard it. "Ah know. It was the name that came up, that matched Remy's DNA in Tony's security system."

"There have been an awful lot of unusual coincidences lately," Denti commented.

"Ah'll say."

"Perhaps I should also ask you if you happen to have the phone numbers of a few professional assassins?"

Rogue looked at him crossly.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke," he said.

"Well...," Rogue began. "As a matter of fact, Ah know of at least one."

* * *

Next time: An assassin, a thief, and a politician walk into a bar.


	32. In The Dark

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

BellaDonna put a gloved hand to the tarnished brass pull and drew the glass-fronted door open. She stepped up and into the bar and shuffled her feet out of habit upon the doormat to wipe the dampness from the soles of her boots. She looked up to survey the dim interior. It was a long room of dark brown wood paneling and deep green padded upholstery. The bar itself was zinc-topped, with green padded stools all along the front. The opposite wall was lined with deep booths that lent themselves to privacy. It was one of any number of Irish bars in the city of Boston. There were only two people inside the bar, the barkeep himself and a silver-haired man seated on one of the barstools. Both men turned to appraise Belle as she strode forward. She was dressed in a long dark gray coat, a bold purple silk scarf looped around her neck brought out the stunning color of her eyes. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, as she was often told, but Liz was only a fraction of fiery and dramatic as BellaDonna Boudreaux.

Belle smiled a tight-lipped smile at the men. She walked to the bar and set the thick manila envelope she carried down upon the counter. The bartender nodded at her.

"What'll you have?" he asked.

"Bourbon," she answered, her voice dark and smoky. Her eye might have winked. "On de rocks."

The silver-haired gentleman had appraised Belle appreciatively and she cast her violet gaze upon him. "On me," the man told the barkeep and tapped his credit card against the countertop.

Belle smiled at the man and moved several stools forward, sliding the envelope along the bar towards him. He was an older gentleman, perhaps as old if not older than her father, if Marius had still been alive. The difference in their ages seemed not to deter the rather immediate attraction each had for the other. Belle lowered her eyes and head, hiding her rueful smile. She should have prepared herself for this encounter, she realized. Meeting Remy LeBeau's biological father in the flesh was much like encountering the son. She could hold fast to the conviction of her anger until actually confronting Remy in person, only to find her fury at him melt away like spring frost. That in itself gave her a different reason to be angry; Remy could be so infuriatingly forgivable.

She pulled off one glove and then the other and tucked them into her coat pocket.

"Why, thank you," she told the gentleman then glanced at the bartender. "Dead in here, enh?"

The bartender poured a measure of bourbon into a glass containing a single ice cube and shrugged. "Just about."

Belle's eyes flicked back to the silver-haired man and nodded at the barstool beside him. "This seat taken?"

The senator smoothed a hand across the padded stool and turned it. "I'm meeting a business partner," he told her. "But until then, perhaps you'd keep me company?"

Belle unbuttoned her overcoat, revealing her light gray blouse and black pencil skirt she wore before sliding onto the barstool. She crossed her stockinged legs and loosened her scarf. "What business is that?" Belle asked.

The man smiled, revealing a white smile of even teeth. Belle was taken aback. It was a smile she'd fallen in love with once. She forced herself to meet his eyes. They were dark brown, like molasses. Belle almost thought it a shame the man would be dead within the next half-hour.

"Politics," the man replied.

"Your face does look familiar," Belle said, which was perfectly true though not because the man stood in the political spotlight.

He extended a hand. "Honoré DesJarlais," he told her. "Ray. Of Louisiana."

She took his hand briefly. " _Louisiana, my Louisiana...the place where I was born_ ," Belle half-sang.

DesJarlais looked at her with some surprise. "Well...one of my own constituents here in this very bar. What a coincidence."

"Is it?" Belle asked him sharply. When DesJarlais looked at her askance, she added: "I'm here on a business errand of my own. And as much as I'd love to sit and chat, I'm on de clock." She tapped a fingernail against the folder.

The man studied her carefully, then looked down at the manila envelope. He looked back up into her eyes. "Boudreaux?" he tentatively asked.

She smiled her unkind smile, turned to her drink and put the glass to her lips.

"I wasn't expectin' a woman," DesJarlais said. Her eyes slid back to his. "Though that's of no matter to me. It makes this business venture more of a pleasure."

Belle swallowed her mouthful of liquor, but the sweet warm notes of the bourbon were lost to the bitterness on her palate. "Why don't we...?" she said and nodded in the direction of one of the booths towards the back. She picked up the envelope and slid from the stool before waiting to see if he would acquiesce. She heard him request a second drink from the bartender. Belle sat in the deep booth and waited, swirling the single ice cube around in her glass. DesJarlais at last sat across from her.

"Am I to understand you were successful?" DesJarlais asked Belle. "In fulfilling our contract?"

She gave a single slow nod and moved the envelope towards DesJarlais. "You'll find the results to your satisfaction." Inside the envelope was a number of glossy photographs in vivid color; that color being mostly blood red. Belle had taken the photos from her vantage point across the alley from Remy LeBeau's Upper East Side apartment in New York. Little did she know at the time she was photographing not the corpse of her ex-husband, but a lifeless clone. Only a few of the photos had come out clearly. Much to her dismay, her hand had not been as steady as she would have liked when she snapped the images.

DesJarlais made to open the envelope when Belle put a staying hand upon his wrist. "I wouldn't suggest opening that here," she said quietly, then cast a glance to the barkeep. "Perhaps the men's lavatory?"

DesJarlais studied her a moment, then nodded. He excused himself and tucked the envelope into his jacket. He stood and departed for the rear of the bar. Belle folded her hands upon the tabletop and watched as a film of water appeared on top of her bourbon as the ice cube melted. Several long moments passed before the lavatory door reopened. A man walked out and strode silently towards where Belle was seated. He slid into the booth across from her, placed a pocket watch onto the tabletop, then mimicked her posture by folding his hands upon the tabletop.

"That didn't take long," she told the man. She nodded at the watch. "What is that?"

"What I could recover of his personal effects," the man said, pulling the monogrammed watch fob from the chain.

He pocketed the watch, then removed a sharp stiletto blade from his interior coat pocket and passed it across the tabletop to Belle along with the fob. Belle recovered her blade and in an instant it had disappeared somewhere on her person. She smiled. "I didn't think you had it in you, thief," she said with a mocking sort of pleasure in her voice.

The man drew a steadying breath. He held the packet of photographs in one hand. Belle noted that his hand trembled. She took pleasure in his discomfort.

"It comes easier when you're confronted by a monster," the man replied, a tremor in his voice. Belle wasn't sure if he was speaking of DesJarlais or herself.

"You saw de photographs?" she asked. "I'm sorry you did. Gruesome, aren't they?"

" _C'est pas possible_ ," the man whispered to himself.

The man ducked his head and put a hand to his forehead as if in pain. Belle began to feel a sympathetic twinge of guilt. She slid a hand across the tabletop and took the envelope from beneath the man's fist.

"It isn't him," she said offhandedly, her voice low.

The man's blue eyes snapped up to her own. "What –?" he said, startled.

"The body in de photos. It isn't Remy. He isn't dead, Jean-Luc," Belle told him.

Jean-Luc LeBeau looked all at once relieved, but then his mouth became an angry line. "You let me believe –!"

"Perhaps if you had known Remy was still alive, you might not have gone through wit' de kill. You might've let dat monster live another day," Belle told him coldly.

Jean-Luc mulled this over. "You can be uncommonly cruel," he told her.

Belle's eyes narrowed a bit. It was something of an uneasy truce she had with her former father-in-law. She held the reins to the Guilds and he acted as silent partner, rarely intervening in the Guild affairs. Really, he was like a shadow of his former self. In all the years that Belle had known him, she always detected an undercurrent of disapproval. Likely it was due to the centuries-long feud between their two Guilds, but Belle couldn't help but think there was more to it. Jean-Luc simply did not like her. She could say the feeling was mutual.

Envelope in hand, Belle slid from the booth. Her eyes met the barkeep's. "Your washroom needs attendin' to, Alec," she told him and dropped the fob into her empty highball glass.

The bartender nodded at BellaDonna as she walked past. Jean-Luc slowly followed. He removed a packet from his sleeve; the payment Belle was to receive from DesJarlais for fulfilling the contract on Remy's life. She would not have accepted it, even if she had been the one to murder Remy LeBeau. Jean-Luc tossed the packet onto the zinc-topped bar for the bartender. The barkeep was a loosely affiliated Guild member, one of those castaways stranded in New England by the British some two-hundred and fifty years ago after _Le Grand Dérangement._ But New World colonists, while in the pursuit of their own religious and democratic freedoms, weren't so much interested in taking on a glut of Papists from _Acadie_ , so they gave the Boudreaux and LeBeau ancestors the old heave-ho. Which left New England with nothing but the most stubborn and recalcitrant bunch of Acadians you'd ever like to find.

Belle rebuttoned her coat and retied her scarf once outside on the pavement. Jean-Luc joined her, firmly closing the bar door behind him.

"If that wasn't Remy in those photos," he began. "Then who was it?"

Belle regarded Jean-Luc. It felt nice to be the one with answers for a change. "A clone," she told him. "Somebody liked Remy enough to go and make hisself a copy."

Jean-Luc found no humor in that. "So a murdered clone turns up in my son's apartment," he said.

"Seems a might unlikely, but there you have it," Belle said.

"Improbable, to be sure," Jean-Luc said. "Unless you happen t'know someone with a knack for improbability."

"What're you talkin' about, Jean-Luc?" Belle mused, looking down her nose at him.

"There's somewhere you ought to be," Jean-Luc replied.

"Right, de woman," Belle said. "Helen Moreux. Time t'meet mommy dearest and collect my wages. Unless you want a cut...? You did do most of de work, after all."

Jean-Luc made a dismissive sound. "Don't be vile t'her," Jean-Luc admonished. "She's had a difficult enough life."

"All dis time thinkin' her son was dead," Belle sniped. "Yes, I'd imagine that'd be hard t'live with."

Jean-Luc shook his head tiredly, but had no retort.

"All dis time you knew who his folks was," Belle said. "And you never breathed a word. I wonder what Remy would say if he knew de kinda secrets you kept from him."

"As it happens, I'd know exactly what he said, Belle, " Jean-Luc replied. "And what he's yet to say. And none of it was ever meant for your ears." With that pronouncement made, Jean-Luc turned and walked away, leaving BellaDonna once again in the dark.

* * *

Next Time: Flashbacks. Pink shirts. Bad hair. Lots of dogs. Breaking and entering. And a long, long chapter.


	33. A Dog's Breakfast

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Four Weeks Ago**

Jean pushed at the metal spatula, moving the blade through the contents of the frying pan. She was making eggs, or at least they were eggs when she started. She thought she wanted fried eggs, sunny-side up, but when she'd cracked the eggshells against the side of the pan, the yolks broke. So Jean decided they were destined to be scrambled eggs. Only they didn't look like scrambled eggs because to her recollection, scrambled eggs were yellow, not brown. The dry brown curds she moved around the pan didn't so much resemble eggs as they did dog vomit. She frowned at the pan. Surely there was something wrong with it, or perhaps the spatula itself was to blame.

The phone rang. Jean startled, not realizing there was a phone in the kitchen. She turned to see it hung on the wall. It was a phone that probably dated from the mid-nineties, a cordless with a retractable antenna. Dropping her spatula onto the countertop, she retrieved the telephone receiver from its cradle.

"Hello?" she said.

There was a brief pause and then: "Who de hell is dis?"

Jean was momentarily taken aback, but well-bred New England upbringing had her reply: "Ah...I'm sorry, can I help you?"

"Put Remy on de phone," said the voice. Jean believed it to be Dickie, or Richard as he preferred to be called, the thief from the doughnut shop. However, the receiver crackled with static and made Richard more unintelligible than he all ready was.

"Remy is not available at the moment," she told him, which was her polite way of saying Remy was in the bathroom.

"Don't give me dat shit, girl," continued Richard.

"I'm sorry," Jean said, firmly taking her position as a civilized human being. "Can I take a message?"

"Yeah, tell 'im to get his ass down here," Richard snapped. "I got a job for him."

"Is it time to make the doughnuts?" Jean asked lightheartedly.

Richard made a dismissive grunting noise and hung up the phone.

"Rude," Jean said, looking at the receiver.

Just then, an alarm began to sound. Jean nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun to see plumes of smoke rising from the frying pan. The fire alarm was blaring.

"Oh, no! Oh, no!" Jean said to no effect. She turned to the window and tried to push it open. When it refused to budge, she used her telekinesis to shove it open. Jean picked up a dish towel and flapped it at the smoke alarm which continued to blare.

"What in sam hill are y'doin'?" Remy asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen entry. His hair was dripping wet and he was clad in nothing but a towel. One hand firmly gripped the towel at his waist as he strode forward and seized the frying pan. He took it off the burner and dropped it into the sink and then turned on the water.

"Sorry!" Jean shouted over the sound of the alarm. "I thought I was making eggs!"

Remy moved to the stove and clicked off the burner. For a moment he stood, his hand resting on the countertop for balance. Jean could see his eyes were unfocused, his complexion pale. She stopped fanning the towel as the alarm silenced itself.

"Remy, are you all right?" she asked in the ensuing silence as she moved towards him. This was the second time she had detected something not quite right with him.

Remy straightened and shook his head. "I'm fine," he said abruptly. "Lemme dry off. Try not t'burn de place down in de meantime."

He turned and walked out of the kitchen, still holding the towel around his waist and leaving wet footprints behind on the linoleum. Jean caught herself watching Remy's bare back and towel-covered area as he walked. She forced herself to look away. He didn't seem to be too mad at her at the moment. He had been angry with her before for intruding on his dream – a nightmare, really. Jean knew she shouldn't have intervened, but listening to Remy's thoughts was like listening to a raucous party in the next apartment over; loud and yet incoherent, disturbing, and no amount of pounding on the walls was going to make it stop. She also felt he was making some kind of subconscious plea for help. After learning that Xavier had passed away, Jean withdrew her line of questioning not wanting to upset Remy any further. Clearly, his way of dealing with grief was to ignore it; the same method he employed to deal with anger and any other negative feelings. But before he could completely withdraw into himself, she had detected something else within him: fear. Seeing her standing over him while he slept had instantly made him afraid, and he regretted his decision to take her with him. Jean tried not to be hurt by this, wanting instead to earn his trust. She would persist in her quest to help him, because at least him being angry or annoyed with her was better than him being afraid of her.

Jean scraped the remnants of her eggs into the trash. She rinsed the pan out under the flow of water from the tap. She studied the worn interior surface of the cookware. For certain the pan was defective. The stove seemed suspect too. She set the pan back onto the stovetop and clicked the burner back on, determined to find a solution to breakfast. Remy stepped back into the kitchen. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn yesterday, jeans and a black shirt.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked him, concerned.

"I'm fine," he answered shortly.

"You seemed a little out of sorts for a moment there," Jean commented lightly.

"It's nothin'," Remy answered. He hovered defensively in the doorway.

She turned to face him. "Are you sure? Because you seem worried."

He frowned briefly. "The alarm near scared me out of my wits. Not what you wanna hear first thing in de mornin'."

"I'm sorry that I startled you, then," Jean told him evenly. "Something about the alarm must have triggered that forgotten memory. If you'd like, I could probably set it off again."

He glanced at her sidelong. "Is that what that feelin' was? Not _deja vu,_ but a forgot memory?" She thought he might be angry again, but instead he was experiencing some small sense of relief. "Not a panic attack? Not...depression?"

Jean shook her head from side to side. "The sound of the alarm was some kind of cue. Does this happen often?"

He moved into the kitchen slowly. "Lately, yeah. You think I'm recollectin' something from my past?"

"I think your brain is trying to send you some kind of signal," she told him.

"I hope it's not a warning signal," Remy said. "'Danger, Will Robinson.'"

"I'm not sure," she said. "I can try to find out more, if you like."

Remy shook his head. " _Chère_ , I dunno if you wanna do that."

"Why not? I'd like to help."

"Because de flash I had before dis last one here was of you bein' in that long purple dress and – ," he began, then cut himself off with a shudder. "Which I know can't be one of my memories 'cause it don't make a lick of sense."

"Remy, I could –," Jean began. But then Remy moved into Jean's space and shooed her away from the stovetop.

"Here, let me," he told her. "You make up some toast."

Jean frowned at him. "Don't order me around," she said but moved towards the toaster anyway. "There's something the matter with the stove. It's broken."

Remy shook his head and adjusted the heat. "Works fine if you're lookin' to scorch your breakfast. You got de heat too high for eggs." He went to the refrigerator and found a block of butter which he set on the counter. Using the blade of the spatula, he carved off a huge glob of butter and dropped it into the pan.

"That's too much butter," Jean said, looking over his shoulder and watching critically as the butter foamed in the pan.

"Eggs want butter," he informed her idly. She watched as he cracked an eggshell neatly on the counter and dropped the egg into the pan using only one hand. He performed the same trick with the second egg and asked her: "How do you like your eggs?"

"Not to give me a heart attack," she said and watched as he salted the eggs.

The toast popped out of the toaster a little burned. Jean placed the toast onto a plate. The pair of eggs Remy slid from the pan looked like they might belong in a photograph to demonstrate exactly how eggs should look. Jean scowled at them, annoyed. She picked up the plate and took it to the small kitchen table. "Thank you," she said begrudgingly.

Remy sat beside her at the table.

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked him.

"I thought I'd sit here and watch you give yourself that heart attack," he told her as she stabbed her toast into her perfectly prepared eggs.

"There's still a doughnut left if you want it," she told him and bit into her toast.

"No, thanks," Remy said.

"Are you on a hunger strike?"

"I'm not hungry."

"I haven't seen you eat anything since the other day, and even then you didn't eat very much," Jean persisted.

"I'm on a diet," he told her.

"Ha ha," she said drolly. "I don't think you have to mind your figure, Remy."

"Not when I can have you mind it for me, _chère_ ," he said and winked at her. "You like what you see, enh?"

"Oh, shut up," she said keeping her gaze focused at her plate.

He laughed. "I gave all de good stuff for Lent," he told her in a moment of honesty.

"I didn't think you were a practicing Catholic," Jean commented.

"I'm not."

"Then why?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I wondered that myself. Mebbe I'm one of those desperate folks who once they reach de end of their rope, go lookin' for answers in de divine. Fill in de blanks in their life with God."

"Do you think that's what you're doing?" Jean asked.

"I dunno. Sometimes I think people only look to God when they want something, or want someone to blame," he told her. "It's a way to cope rather than admitting that life's just unfair."

Jean finished her breakfast and moved to the sink to wash her plate. "Are you so cynical as that, Remy? I don't think so. I don't think you believe your own words."

Remy sighed and stretched. He laced his fingers together and set his hands on top of his head. "Lucky I ran into you to figure out what it is that goes on in my head. You wanna tell me what it is I'm thinkin' right now?"

"I'm not falling for that," she told him dryly, and purposefully tuned his thoughts out. She knew whatever he was thinking now was probably either very rude or obscene. She told him: "Your cousin called."

"Enh," Remy grunted.

"He wants you to go see him at the doughnut shop," Jean told him and turned, plate in hand. She dried the plate with a towel and put it back into the cupboard. "Why does he dislike you so much?"

"Do you think the very fact of my existence isn't reason enough?" Remy asked her conversationally.

She glanced over her shoulder at him as she put the eggs and butter back into the refrigerator. "He seems to resent you. He might be jealous. He thinks you're conceited."

"I don't give a – I don't _care_ what he thinks," Remy said and placed his hands upon the table. He pushed himself into standing position. "Or any of them for that matter."

"Do you think that might be part of the problem?" she asked him. "Your attitude towards them, the other thieves?"

"You didn't have to spend every moment of your growin' up bein' held to impossibly high standards you couldn't hope to live up to," Remy told her. "Get scrutinized for every flaw."

"You think so, do you?" Jean asked a little coolly.

Remy turned and left the kitchen. "Maybe you got tested, Jeannie," his voice echoed down the hall. "But no one put you to task in de hopes of watchin' you fail."

She pursued him as far as the bathroom door as he continued on into the living room. Jean watched him kneel on the couch and take the ugly painting off the wall. There was a safe behind the painting.

"Isn't it a little obvious to hide a safe behind a painting?" Jean asked.

"You didn't think t'look, did you?" Remy asked.

Jean shook her head impatiently and entered the bathroom. She picked up a toothbrush from the plastic cup and found the toothpaste tube on top of the toilet tank. "Why is there a safe here?" she asked.

"It's called a 'safe house,' ain't it?" Remy questioned back.

"Ha. Ha," Jean responded as she applied the toothpaste to the toothbrush.

"It's for emergencies," Remy supplied. "Like for when you're out of funds, like us two."

"Do you know the combination?" Jean asked.

"What does that have t'do wit' anything?" Remy said offhandedly.

Jean wandered out of the bathroom, scrubbing her teeth. "Den 'ow –," she said around the toothbrush. She saw that Remy had opened the safe. "Oh. Nebbermund."

Remy removed a stack of bills from the safe and tossed it onto the couch cushions. He stood from where he was kneeling on the couch, closing the safe as he did so, but not before Jean could see the stacks of folded bills and the firearms inside the safe.

Remy turned around to look at her and froze. His expression was a picture of growing outrage. Jean looked at Remy quizzically.

"Enh! What d'you think you're doin'?" he shouted.

Jean startled. "Whuh –?"

"That's my toothbrush!" he yelled. "You're using my toothbrush!"

Jean looked down at the toothbrush handle, her eyes crossing. She saw the toothbrush was pink. "Oh," she said as realization slowly dawned on her. "Sobby."

~ oOo ~

Remy and Jean had negotiated a truce and as part of the peace pact, Jean had agreed to not go along with Remy to see his cousin. Instead, she would go shopping and obtain some clothing for herself. When Remy deposited her at a shopping center, further peace-talks were needed. At first, one hour of time had been allotted but Jean countered with three. Remy seemed affronted but then proposed a two-hour shopping-time limit. Jean begrudgingly agreed. It at least gave her a chance to go to the salon and have something done with her hair, which had been burned when she fled Sinister's lair. And who had heard of shopping for just one hour? Remy was being unreasonable. Two hours turned into two and a half, which wasn't Jean's intention. She cursed ("Oh! Shoot!") when she checked her newly purchased watch and realized she was late. With her shopping bags in one hand, her purse under her arm, and a giant soft pretzel in her other hand, she walked as quickly as possible to the food court. She found Remy there sitting in a chair with his elbows on the table. His coat had been tossed over the back of his chair. He was wearing sunglasses and covertly watching the mall shoppers go by.

"Sorry I'm late," she said as she sat across from Remy at the little table.

Remy seemed surprised at first, as if he didn't recognize her. "Wha –? Jean?" He regarded her more closely.

"Yes?" she said and smiled. She turned her head from side to side, feeling the ends of her hair brush her shoulders. It was a light feeling; she'd had over twelve inches chopped off the length.

Remy opened and then slowly closed his mouth. She couldn't see his eyes, so it seemed his face was expressionless.

"Notice anything different?" she prompted.

"Very...different," he said at last. Then he said nothing.

"Does that mean you don't like it?" she continued teasingly.

"It's purple," Remy told her. "You dyed your hair purple."

Jean sniffed. "It's not _purple_. It's called 'Autumn Sunset.'"

"I'd have called it 'Bruised Fruit,'" Remy said.

Jean opened her mouth, appalled. "I don't say anything about how you wear _your_ hair," she said.

"What's wrong wit' my hair?" Remy asked.

"Nothing, as long as you don't mind looking like you've spent the last few weeks in an isolated cabin. How is that thousand-page manifesto addressed to the government coming along?" Jean asked him.

Remy's jaw jutted out. "It's a disguise. I'm notorious, don't you know."

"Are you disguising yourself as a vagrant?"

"I'm goin' with 'disaffected hipster,'" Remy told her. "Ironic facial hair is in."

"Well, I hate it," Jean said.

"Who asked you?" Remy said.

"You did!"

"Did not."

"You asked me – ugh, never mind!" Jean stuck her tongue out at him and blew a raspberry.

"What took you so long?" Remy asked.

Jean decided on a diversionary tactic. "I bought you some new clothes." She pushed a bag across the floor towards him with her foot.

"I have clothes," Remy told her.

"You can't wear the same shirt and jeans everyday," Jean said.

"Says who?"

"Remy, why are you being so difficult?" she asked with exasperation. "You're going to have to wash that shirt at some point. You can't go around naked."

"Again, I ask: says who?"

Jean decided to give up and eat the rest of her pretzel. She pulled into pieces. "Do you want some?" she offered.

"You know I'm gonna say 'no' so why do you ask?" he said and he sat back in his chair, arms crossed.

"It's called: _being polite_ ," Jean said.

"Fake polite. You don't really want to share," he said.

"You're driving me crazy!" Jean announced.

"I got somethin' for you too," Remy said and reached back behind his chair. He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. He set it in front of her.

Jean looked down at the envelope. "What's this?" she asked dubiously.

"Open it," Remy said, and even though his face and body posture appeared placid, she could sense he was a little excited.

Jean placed her pretzel down onto a paper napkin and brushed salt from her slacks. She took up the envelope and opened it. She found two credit cards inside, a social security card, and a driver's license. Each document bore the same name.

"Who is Jillian?" she asked.

"She's whoever you want her to be," Remy said and his face split in a slow grin. "I got you a new ID. Only a few traffic violations, good credit score. You don't even have t'change your monogram."

Jean didn't know what to say. "I don't know what to say," she said, a little flummoxed.

Remy frowned a bit, looking put-out. "You don't like it?"

Jean realized Remy thought he was doing her a favor, and that he had expected her to be pleased and excited with a new stolen identity. She tried to smile. "It's – I realize you're trying to help me..."

"Yeah, now you can be free t'do what you like. Do as you please without anyone knowing," Remy told her. "What's dat face? Why you look that way?"

Jean exhaled a little breath. "I'm not trying to be ungrateful," she began. "It's that I'm only just now remembering who it is I am."

"It's not like I'm tellin' you t'be someone else," Remy said, his tone defensive. "It's just a new name. It's just a tool."

"You act like it's not a big deal, to change your name," Jean answered calmly. "But you won't even change your clothes."

"Would it make you happy if I changed my shirt, then?" Remy asked, snatching up the bag from the floor. He peered into the bag and shuffled around the tissue paper in an impatient sort of way.

"Yes," Jean said simply and popped the last of her pretzel into her mouth.

Remy retrieved a shirt from inside the bag. It was striped in two shades of pink. Only a man who was very confident in his sexuality or called himself 'Gambit' would be comfortable wearing such a shirt, and as it happened, Remy fulfilled both qualifiers. He studied the shirt, his face blank.

"Do you like it?" Jean asked.

"Yes," he reluctantly admitted. He unbuttoned it and put it on over his black tee shirt. He looked at the end of the sleeve searching for a tag. Jean had ripped it off. It had been kind of expensive, and she doubted Remy would have put it on if he knew how much she had paid for it.

She told him quickly: "It looks nice on you."

"Thanks," he said. "Y'know I don't think anyone's bought me clothes b'fore."

"That has to be an exaggeration," Jean said. "What about your parents? Did they just let you run around nude?"

"No, I had clothes. But not anything new. I just took whatever hand-me-downs were left over. I don't usually like people pickin' things out for me anyway." So as not to seem ungrateful, he gestured at the shirt and added: "But this is okay."

Jean smiled and picked up the envelope with her fake identification. She flicked through the cards to the photo ID. She read: "Hair: red –."

"Too late t'change it t'purple," Remy said.

"It's _mahogany_! Eyes: green. Height...well, you're close. Weight...! Hey!"

" _Ain_?"

"I do _not_ weigh that much," Jean said, pointing the card at him.

"I know," he informed her. "It was wishful thinkin' on my part. You're too skinny."

Jean frowned at him. "Nice save," she replied.

"I'm serious. You should eat more. How 'bout I get you one of dem shakes from de _Chick-fil-A_?"

Jean tucked the envelope into her purse. "All right, sure," she said. "Then you can fill me in on what it is your cousin wants us to steal."

Remy had made to stand and retrieve Jean a milkshake, but then paused and glanced at her sidelong. "What's ' _us'_? There's no 'us.'"

Jean folded her hands on the table. "As long as you and I are guests of the Guild, we should both do our fair share of earning our keep."

Remy sat. "No. No, I don't think so."

"You're not leaving me behind in that apartment," Jean told him. "It's depressing. And I want to help."

"I don't need help," Remy said.

"That's beside the point," she told him. "I know you don't _need_ help. But I _want_ to feel useful."

Remy didn't answer, but seemed to mull over his options. Jean thought it unlikely that Remy had the ability to tell a woman 'no.' However, she didn't want to make him feel as though he'd been bullied.

"You could give me something very simple to do," she said and smiled. "No task is too menial. Can I clean your lock picks? Lay out your grappling hooks and whatnot? Lint-roller your black catsuit?"

Remy tsked and shook his head. He smiled. She could tell she was winning him over.

"I could be the lookout," Jean offered and pointed at her head. "Psy powers. Could come in handy."

Remy seemed to take this into consideration.

" _Pleeeeease_...!" Jean begged.

"You did not just beg," Remy said.

"Nothing is beneath me," Jean said.

"Wait 'til you hear dis job," Remy responded dully.

"So you're going to let me help?" Jean asked, pleased. "What is it? Are we going to rob a bank? A museum?"

"Do you really think I'd let you rob a bank?" Remy asked her.

"Then tell me," Jean said. "I'd like to know the backstory to my criminal origin."

"You're pretty funny, you know," Remy said.

"I get that way when I'm not possessed," Jean told him.

Remy rifled in his jacket and produced a manila folder that had been folded over and then wrapped in a rubber band. He pulled off the band and set the folder onto the table. He opened it and the documents inside curled over. Remy smoothed them flat.

"What's all that?" Jean asked.

"It's de case file," he said. "Or at least a fraction of one."

"What do you mean?" Jean asked and leaned forward to look at the documents.

"Dickie only gave me a portion of de file," Remy answered. "Most of it's missing."

"Where is it?"

"Likely, he's got it."

"Why wouldn't he have given it to you?"

"Probably he wants to watch me spin my wheels for a while and make me look like a daggone fool."

"You should have asked for the rest of it," Jean told him practically.

"I can figure this out on my own," Remy responded, pointing at the file.

"' _I'll show him_ ,'" Jean said in a growly sort of voice and shook her fist with mock indignation.

"Are you makin' fun of me?"

"I'm just saying you could save yourself a lot of time and unnecessary stress if you weren't so prideful."

"Prideful? If you only knew...," Remy responded. "It'd be nice to have even an ounce of dignity left."

"What do you mean?"

Remy turned his attention back to the documents. "This here should be kid stuff," Remy told her. "Recovery job."

"What's that?"

"Someone stole somethin' from someone else and that person wants me t'steal it back," Remy replied.

"What is this something?"

Remy scratched his forehead with his finger and said: "I'm not entirely sure."

"We don't even know what we're stealing?"

"Well, I know that it's called _Bijou Dor_ _é,_ " Remy said. "Which is a stupid name for a piece of jewelry as I've ever heard." He turned an image to face Jean. She looked down at it. It was a black and white photocopy of a family portrait. Pictured was a family of four; husband, wife, and two children, a boy and a girl. They were posed around a pedestal in the shape of a Greek column upon which sat a small dog. The background was a mottled gray backdrop from a photo studio. Everyone in the family seemed to be looking off to something on the left that was very far away. Remy indicated the woman in the photo. "Here's de client," he said. He pointed to her hand which lay upon her son's shoulder. The woman was wearing a large bracelet.

"Doesn't look like anything t'me," Remy continued. "And a named piece should'a turned up somewhere, been reported stolen. That it wasn't makes me wonder that maybe dis bracelet wasn't acquired on de up and up in de first place. These folks look like they're well enough off, but not like they're in de one percent."

"I'm sorry, the 'one percent'?" Jean repeated, not understanding.

"Ah, sorry. Somethin' Denti tole me about upper class and Wall Street 'r whatever," Remy stumbled. "Anyway. So it seems like de theft was just your simple snatch and dash." He pointed at the woman. "Someone comes up to her while she was walkin' in de park and snatches de _bijou_ and makes a run for it."

"Do we know who that someone is?" Jean asked.

Remy turned over another photo. "Mizz Pierce. Dis one," he said, indicating a mug shot of a heavyset woman of late middle age. "Though how much running she does, I don't know. Been taken in before for petty theft, shoplifting. She's got de _bijou_ now, or at least knows who she sold it to. De client seems t'think Pierce sold her _bijou_ on de internet. Saw it in an ad and recognized her bauble. Only I checked all de auction sites, and I couldn't turn up anything."

"But can't she just get it back? Doesn't she have proof of ownership?" Jean asked.

"That's what makes me think that de client doesn't have any records of provenance –."

"Did you say: ' _pro_ -ven-ahnce'?"

"Are you gonna keep interrupting me?" he paused, testing her. When she remained silent he continued. "And haven't you heard that possession is nine-tenths of lawful ownership?"

"So let's go possess this _bijou, tout suite_ ," Jean said.

"Now you're speakin' my language," Remy told her.

Jean stood with an air of confidence. "First we get a milkshake," she said.

~oOo~

Jean had an extra large milkshake to keep herself occupied and blessedly silent for the next forty minutes. Remy was driving through a neglected portion of Boston suburbs, scoping out the jewel thief's home and the lay of the land. He parked the car curbside, a half-block away from the targeted house. There was a laptop in Denti's briefcase. Remy had it open in front of him, accessed an unprotected wireless connection, and found the neighborhood on Google Maps. Using satellite view, he was able to get a bird's-eye-view of Ms. Pierce's house and yard. From where the car was parked, he could see a gravel drive on one side of the house leading up to a carport. The opposite side was an overgrown mass of bushes; perfect cover for sneaking up alongside the house. He could see from the map that the backyard was composed of a cracked cement pad and the terrain sloped away from the home, which meant there was a possible entryway through a walk-out basement. The entire property was framed by a chain-link fence.

Jean drained the rest of her beverage with a rattling slurp. Remy glanced over at her, eyebrow raised.

"It's a little scary to me that you're using Google to plot out how to break into a house," Jean told him.

"Make use of de tools that are readily available," Remy said and grinned. "Anything becomes a weapon in de right hands."

"Don't you mean 'wrong hands'?" Jean asked.

"Allow me t'give you a demonstration, and I can show you there's nothin' at all _wrong_ with my hands," he told her suggestively and squeezed her thigh just above the knee. Jean let out a yelp and swatted his hand away.

"Fresh!" she said scoldingly, but she was smiling. For a moment, Remy could remember how it was when he'd first met and worked alongside Jean. She could always take a joke, an off-color remark, or playful flirtation. He had never known Scott to be the slightest bit threatened by Remy's blatant flirting, probably because he knew Jean never would have taken Remy seriously.

"It's been awhile since I been out parking wit' a girl," Remy told her.

"Shouldn't you be concentrating on this job?" Jean asked him pointedly.

Remy closed the laptop and stowed it back inside the briefcase. He slouched back into the driver's seat. "There won't be nothin' t'do but wait here for awhile. And I don't like de looks of that fence."

Jean looked over to where Remy had fixed his gaze. "It can't be more than four feet tall," she observed. "I'm sure you could scale it. Unless you'd like me to give you a boost?"

"I know you'd love de opportunity to lay hands on my _derrière_ , Jeannie. But it's not de gettin' over de fence that concerns me. It's what that fence is keeping in," Remy told her. "Fences mean dogs. And dogs are no friend to de thief."

Jean considered this. "I see. So we'll have to find out what kind of dog we're dealing with here."

Since Jean's extended shopping excursion, the afternoon had waned into dusk. Lights began to turn on inside the homes along the street. From their vantage point, they had a view into the large picture window of the targeted house. Inside, they could spy the glow of a television set.

"How many folks inside de house?" Remy asked Jean. "Can you tell?"

Jean concentrated for a moment. "Just one," she said.

"Any dogs?" Remy asked.

"I'm not sure," Jean said and looked over at him.

"You can't pick out their little doggie minds?" Remy asked.

"An animal's mind is different from a human's," Jean told him. "I can't get a definite fix on them."

"Xavier could use birds and such," Remy said offhandedly, his eyes trained on the house.

"Xavier was the most powerful telepath on the planet," Jean replied, and he could feel her eyes searching the side of his face for expression. "There wasn't anyone who could rival his skill."

"I suppose that makes you number one now, enh?"

Jean thought for a moment. "Maybe," she answered finally. "But I'm certainly no replacement."

Remy nodded once, his eyes still far away. " _Oui..._ Sorry for your loss."

"Our loss," Jean corrected.

"He was like a father to you...your mentor and all," Remy said. "I don't hold such claim t'his memory."

"Why don't you tell me what he meant to you," Jean asked. Her kind sympathy made Remy feel uncomfortable and anxious. He should be the one consoling her and not the other way around.

"I wonder how long dis woman is gonna sit in front of that tee-vee," Remy remarked, changing the subject.

Jean let out a little sigh. After a moment she said: "I think I have an idea."

Remy glanced at her, half afraid she was talking about Xavier. Jean pointed at the house. "Look there. A satellite dish."

Remy turned and saw the dish she indicated mounted on the side of the house. As he watched, he saw the dish reposition itself. He looked back at Jean. She was moving it with her telekinesis. Back inside the house, Remy could spy the large woman sit up from her recliner and point the remote at the television set. Her arm jiggled as she forcefully pressed on the buttons, hoping to get the TV to respond. The woman hefted herself from the chair and proceeded to the set. She jabbed at the console and then smacked the set with the flat of her hand. Remy smiled and turned his grin onto Jean.

"Hey, that's pretty good," he told her.

It wasn't long before the woman was on her cellphone, likely calling in a complaint to her satellite provider. From where they sat in the parked car, Jean and Remy watched the woman march out the side door and into the carport. She stalked down the driveway to the gate in the fence. She passed through it, her cellphone to her ear the entire time. The woman passed by where they were parked, failing to see the two spies as she continued on to her neighbor's house. Up on the front porch, the woman banged on the door and in a moment was greeted by the neighbor. The two of them conferred and the woman was permitted entry.

"Apparently there was somethin' too good t'miss on," Remy observed. "Probably _Duck Dynasty_ or some other reality show that makes every southerner look like a dimwitted redneck." He started the engine and put the car into drive.

"Where are we going?" Jean asked.

"'Round to de next block," Remy told her. "We'll come up to de back of de house from there."

When Remy had taken them around the block, he parked in the drive of a house that appeared vacant. A For Sale sign was posted in the front yard of the weedy lot. Remy turned to Jean. "Go up to de basement door," he told her. "I'll go in through de side."

Jean drew a breath and looked excited. "Are we really going to break in?" she asked.

He smiled at her, sensing her growing anticipation. Remy knew he should feel offended that his cousin had dumped this job into his lap; he knew Richard's intention had been to insult him by giving Remy a job so far beneath his skill level. But Jean looked like a little girl playing prank calls. It was funny to watch her face come alive with mischief. "And let me know if you see any dogs," Remy told her.

Jean sobered and nodded. "I will."

Remy stepped from the vehicle and closed the driver's side door as quietly as possible. He looked at Jean from over the roof of the car. He nodded at her and she followed suit. The pair walked towards the vacant house, skirting alongside it and into the backyard. The vacant house's backyard abutted the fenced yard belonging to their target. Remy approached the fence, took a few quick steps and lightly vaulted the fence to land on the opposite side. He immediately moved to the side of the house concealed by bushes, trusting that Jean had followed his directions. Remy ducked under the cover of overgrown abvorvitae, finding a window just beside an air conditioning unit. He hopped onto the unit, tested the double-hung window, and found it locked. With his forefinger, he drew a semicircle on the lower sash just below the lock, leaving a small sparkling trail of charged particles as he did. He flicked the window and the small charge he'd left behind disintegrated along the line he'd traced. A small piece of glass the shape of a half circle dropped from the window, leaving an opening just wide enough for him to reach his hand and wrist through to unlock the window. Remy slid the window open and slipped into a bedroom. It was dark and close, the bed unmade and the floor untidy with dirty clothing. There was a small oak laminate desk with an old computer sitting on top of it. The computer was ringed with dirty dishes, glasses and coffee mugs, and a glass ashtray overflowing with spent cigarette filters. The room smelled rank, both of cigarettes and a funky animal-smell. Remy's nose wrinkled at the odor. He proceeded to the computer and turned it on. Perhaps he could find the online site where the woman had posted the _Bijou Doré_ for sale. While the computer was booting up, he went to the dresser and riffled through the jewelry box on top of it. The box contained nothing but cheap costume jewelry and a brass pocket watch with a dented lid. Remy picked the watch up for a moment then hastily dropped it back into the box. There was a tremor in his hand as he wiped his fingers on his jeans. The strange sensation of _deja vu_ began to creep up on him.

_Not this again_ , he thought to himself, trying to push away whatever memory flash he was about to have. _Not now..._

Remy quickly stepped back from the dresser and moved to the closet and opened the doors. He pushed aside oversized and outdated clothing, searching for any valuables. As his hand brushed aside a coat, he felt the weight of something in the pocket strike his hand. He dug into the pocket, turned it out, and uncovered a small pink band trimmed with plastic rhinestones. It was a dog collar. The tags clinked in his hand. Remy blew out an impatient snort and turned to look over at the computer. He saw the monitor crackle to life and the Windows start up screen appear. Before he could move towards the machine, he heard the sound of nails clicking across the wood floorboards. Remy quickly turned towards the open door. There was a dog in the entryway. It was a small, foxy-faced dog with pointy ears. It's long fur was an orangey-brown color, it's face and chest a paler color, and it had bright black eyes. Upon seeing him, the dog let out a high-pitched yap and began twirling excitedly. Remy stood, frozenly staring at the little dog.

_He had a brief and instant flash of memory of another small dog, yapping incessantly and fervently around his ankles. He imagined his foot impatiently striking the animal aside. Remy heard it yelp in pain and it let out a soft whimper as it scurried away. All at once, he felt horrible for kicking the small dog, who was only doing what a dog should do: protecting its master. Remy looked down then at the dog's master laying on the ground before him. In his memory, Remy could see the man was clutching his gut and moaning as blood pumped from between his fingers. Remy looked down at his own hand and saw he was holding a gun, which looked cartoonishly large in his small hand. Remy saw he was covered in a fine spray of red._

Remy jerked backwards, as if to pull himself away from the memory. He felt a convulsion shudder though him and he had to put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. He remembered that particular moment now, recalled shooting that man in front of the man's own house, in front of the little dog. Then he recalled the woman's scream, the man's wife, and the petrified faces of the man's two children, one of whom was the same age as Remy had been at the time – seven. He could remember the incident now, and as it came rushing back to him he could recall the sight of the the young woman that man had brutalized before returning home to his family. But that wasn't the worst part of remembering the moment. Remy experienced a sick feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He recalled the reason he shot the man was not to avenge the girl, but to defend the only decent fence he'd had at the time. That whore had been the only one who didn't cheat him half so bad as the others.

The little foxy-faced dog was still twirling like a small furry dervish. Remy heard the soft jangle of bells, or what he now realized were the metal tags attached to the collar he clenched in his shaking fist. He looked at the little pink collar, holding it in his open palm. The heart-shaped tag turned over in his hand revealing the name etched in the metal: _Bijou Doré_.

"Fudge," Remy said dully. "Fudge me sideways."

The dog yapped again in response. Remy strode forward and snatched up the little dog which squirmed in his grip. He felt a little nauseated and muddle-headed. On top of that, he was furious with his cousin Richard, for sending him on this idiotic job that wasn't a job at all, but a prank at Remy's expense. Remy clutched the dog so tightly it let out a little yelp.

Suddenly, Jean appeared in the doorway. Her expression was alive with excitement. "Remy!" she said a little breathlessly. "Remy, look!" She held out a laundry basket, inviting him to examine the contents.

Remy peered down into the basket. Inside were three smaller versions of the already small dog Remy held under his arm. They were tumbling about in the bottom of the basket which was lined with an old blue towel. "Very nice," Remy told her. "Now let's go."

Jean's face fell and she lowered the basket. "Remy, what's wrong? You're white as a sheet."

"Nothing," Remy snapped. "Put down de basket, we're going."

"But –," Jean began, her arms now hanging low, the basket of puppies resting against her thighs. "Did you find the _bijou_?"

"Yes," he said and thrust the dog collar at her.

Jean looked at the collar, then the dog under Remy's arm. "It's the dog! The dog in the photo!" Jean grinned happily. She cooed at the dog: "Ah! Her name is Bijou! Sweet little Bijou!"

Remy grunted in response and turned towards the open window.

"But Remy, we can't take Bijou and leave her puppies!" Jean said, hurrying after him.

"I didn't see nothin' in de file about any puppies," Remy said. "Put 'em down. We got to get."

"No!" Jean said. "We can't go! Remy, come see!"

"I saw them all ready," he said over his shoulder.

"No, I meant the others! There's more, Remy! Downstairs in the basement." With that Jean had turned and hurried from the bedroom.

"Dagnabbit!" Remy growled and turned to follow after Jean. He stuffed the dog collar into his coat pocket.

Jean had trotted down the basement stairs. As Remy approached the basement door, the smell of animal grew stronger. As he began down the wooden steps, he could see why. There were a number of crates stacked one on top of the other along one of the cinderblock walls. Small dogs were held in each crate. There was much barking and whining. The smell was appalling. Jean had left the basement door leading into the backyard open. She set the basket of puppies onto the damp cement floor and began opening the crates.

"Jean! What'chu doin'?" Remy hissed. "Don't let them dogs out!"

"We have to save them," Jean was saying as she lifted dogs from their containers. She turned and pushed a small white dog at him. It looked more like a stuffed toy than a live animal. Remy had no choice but to take it. Its feet were wet and he hated to think about the reason why that would be.

"No we don't!" Remy told her. "Quit it! Put that thing back!"

Jean pulled a clothesline down from where it was hung. "Help me put leads on them," she told him, ignoring everything Remy had just said. She was using her telekinesis to sever the clothesline into shorter pieces. Remy stood and watched her, flabbergasted. Finally, she glanced up at him. "Remy! We can't just leave them here! This woman is a dognapper. Look at these poor animals. These conditions are deplorable!"

Remy shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the last remaining cobwebs of sticky nightmarish memory. "I've seen _people_ livin' in worse," he told her. "We don't got time for dis foolishness."

Jean looked up at him from where she crouched on the basement floor as she affixed a bit of string around one of the small dogs. "Here, take these," she said and passed him the ends of several makeshift leashes. Jean scooped up a pair of small reddish-brown wiener dogs, put the basket of puppies under her other arm and started out the door. Dogs trailed after her, yapping and causing a general racket.

" _Bon Dieu_ ," Remy breathed. "Let dis be a nightmare too."

Remy jogged out into the lawn after Jean. With a loud clanging of tearing metal, Jean created a gaping hole in the fence and was leading the dogs through it. Lights had come on in the adjacent home and Remy was certain people were now looking out into the yard to see what all the commotion was about. This was probably the second most disastrous getaway he had ever been party to. Remy tripped over one of the dogs as he passed through the gap Jean had left in the fence. She was lifting dogs into the backseat of their vehicle. Now that one of his legs was wrapped in the makeshift dog lead, Remy hopped one-legged down the driveway. The dogs attempted to scatter in all directions. Remy distinctly heard someone shouting after him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the dognapper, Ms. Pierce, climbing down from her neighbor's porch. Remy turned. Jean was running in his direction. She hurriedly grabbed the leashes she'd stuffed into Remy's hand and lead the dogs to the car. As she was lifting them into the backseat, one of the dogs dashed off down the driveway, its lead trailing behind it.

"Oh, no!" Jean whispered and started after the runaway pooch.

"Jean, don't!" Remy shouted at her, but she was all ready running.

Remy tossed the white dog into the open rear window of the car and pulled the driver's side door open. He slid into the driver's seat, Bijou perched on his lap. As he turned to close the car door, he spotted the hefty dognapper marching across her lawn to the open hole in her fence. The woman's face was red and her arms pumped furiously as she moved.

"Stop! You – Stop, thief!" she shouted at Remy as she passed through the fence.

"Ah, shhh- _sugar_ ," Remy said and cranked the key in the ignition. He looked back over his shoulder and threw the car into reverse, peeling out of the driveway and into the street. The car bounced over the curb and dogs went tumbling everywhere.

Once out on the street, Remy put the car into drive. He stepped on the gas and sent the car squealing down the street. Up ahead, he could spy Jean's lithe shape running down the darkened street after the runaway dog, which appeared to be a miniaturized version of a Doberman Pinscher (a breed that Remy was unfortunately very familiar with). Remy could spy the angry Ms. Pierce running after him in his rear-view mirror. Dogs were bounding around the backseat and in the back window, barking and howling and yelping.

"Shut up! Shut up, you dogs!" Remy shouted, but the dogs only barked louder.

He drove up alongside Jean, who had managed to catch the dog she was chasing by using her powers. Remy leaned over the passenger seat and flung open the door. Jean slid into the seat, breathing hard, the dog clutched in her arms. Remy had barely stopped the car to allow her entry before they were off again. Jean yanked the door shut as they sped away. She turned in her seat to look through the rear window at the receding form of Ms. Pierce. Remy took a sharp corner and suddenly the dognapper was out of sight.

"Are you out of your pea-pickin' mind?" Remy yelled at Jean.

Jean grimaced, her expression contrite. "I'm sorry! But we couldn't just leave them!" she said.

"That's exactly what we could've done," he told her impatiently. "Why you took such a stupid risk for –." Remy took a steadying breath and gripped the wheel. He exhaled slowly. The dogs had continued their cacophony; Bijou's steady yaps punctuated the din. Remy put his hand over the dog's tiny muzzle and the dog began to vigorously lick his palm. Remy let out a sort of fatalistic laugh.

"Are you very mad?" Jean asked shyly.

Remy leaned his head back against the headrest for a moment. He swallowed, forcing his frustration down his throat like a dryly swallowed pill. "No, I'm not mad," he replied finally. He wasn't going to be mad at Jean for taking such a silly risk over a bunch of dogs when he himself had taken much bigger and stupider risks for less. He wasn't going to get mad at his cousin Richard for sending him on a wild goose chase. Remy wasn't going to give Dickie the satisfaction of seeing him riled. So Remy sank back into his indifferent persona, returned his face to its usual mask.

Jean considered Remy for a moment before turning to look into the backseat. She set the little Doberman onto the floor behind her and shushed the other dogs. If Remy had been more himself, he might have taken the moment to admire Jean's bottom, which pressed against his upper arm. Instead, he stared forward, driving aimlessly. When she was finished wrangling the dogs, Jean returned to her seat and fastened her safety belt. After several long moments occasionally broken by a high-pitched bark, Jean finally spoke.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Remy blinked, coming out of his daze. His head hurt very badly. "I'm thinkin'," he said, turning down a random street. Something in the beam of the car's headlights caught his attention.

"Do you – ?" Jean began when Remy suddenly steered the vehicle to the curb. He parked the car and cut the ignition.

"What are we –?" Jean started again.

Remy climbed out of the vehicle. He still held the little fluffy dog under his arm. It seemed content to be carried around. Remy passed before the front of the car as Jean climbed out from the passenger seat. He chose not to meet her gaze. As he stepped up onto the curb, he made directly for the nearby post which had been papered over with flyers. The majority of the flyers read: Lost Dog. Remy moved to the post and began pulling down flyers.

"Remy?" Jean called.

Remy approached the car and slipped into the passenger seat. Jean joined him inside the vehicle, assuming the position as driver. He passed her the handful of papers, each bearing the image of a small dog. "Let's find a poor dog a home."

Jean and Remy spent the rest of the evening driving around suburbia, dropping dogs off on front porches and in fenced-in yards. The dogs that they couldn't find homes for were taken to the doughnut shop, much to the delight of the young pregnant thief who squealed and exclaimed over the small dogs, her surly teenage attitude momentarily forgotten. Richard had been smirking when he first saw Jean and Remy pull up in front of the shop. The pair hurriedly departed, leaving a half-dozen or so small dogs as proof of their successful heist. They smiled and waved at Richard's livid face through the shop window as they drove away. There was one dog left: Bijou. Remy had affixed the collar around the little dog's neck and placed her in the basket with her puppies.

Jean drove into a middle-class neighborhood and parked before a neat Cape Cod style house. The lights were on inside the home, glowing warmly from behind the curtains.

"Come on, let's bring Bijou home," Jean told Remy as she stepped out of the vehicle. Remy remained seated.

When Jean opened the rear passenger side door, Remy told her: "Go on ahead and set 'em on de front step. I'll wait here."

Jean stared at the back of Remy's head. "No, let's both go up," she told him. She picked up the last flyer from the center console, the one that bore the black and white image of the family and their missing dog. She rattled the paper at him. "Don't you want to collect your reward?"

Remy glanced back at her, eyebrows raised. Jean smiled at him. "Come on, Remy. It will be fun."

Remy sighed and reluctantly stepped from the car. Jean passed him the little dog, which Remy had learned was a Pomeranian.

"She likes you," Jean told Remy, who held the dog awkwardly in one hand. Jean then picked up the basket of puppies and cradled it in her arms.

Remy shook his head tiredly and proceeded to the gate in the picket fence. Remy started up the walk and stepped up onto the small front porch. He glanced over his shoulder at Jean who smiled encouragingly. Remy knocked on the front door. After a few moments, a shadow passed before the window in the front door. Recalling his paralyzing memory flash from earlier, Remy felt fear clutch his gut. The door opened revealing a woman. Remy felt himself relax. The woman behind the door looked wary of her unexpected guest, that is until she spotted the dog in his arms. Her expression turned into one of surprise and delight.

"Bijou!" she said. "Oh my goodness, you found her!"

Remy thrust the dog at the woman, who continued to exclaim as the dog was passed into her arms. The dog went into paroxysms of joy, squirming and licking and whining as the woman held the dog to her chest. The woman turned and called into the house: "Kids, come see! Come quick!"

Remy heard the flurry of stockinged footsteps from the hallway as two children trotted into the living room clad in their pajamas. Both kids spotted the dog immediately and ran towards their mother, who lowered the dog to the ground. Jean joined Remy on the step, smiling broadly at the two children as they cooed over their little dog. The dog began to twirl around on its tiny legs. The mother cupped her hands over her mouth and nose, concealing her wide smile but not the obvious happiness in her eyes. She turned back to where Jean and Remy stood.

"Thank you, thank you!" she said and stepped back from the door. She beckoned them into her living room. "Please, come in!"

Remy hesitated on the step, but Jean pushed into the home. "We have a surprise," Jean said and held out the basket.

Remy thought he hadn't seen anyone so happy than when he first presented Bijou to her owners, but that was nothing compared to their excitement over the three tiny puppies. The mother clutched Remy's forearm. "Thank you so much! We thought we'd never see her again!"

Remy smiled at her wanly. "You're welcome," he told her. "Glad to help. We should really get going."

Jean was crouched beside the two children with the dogs. She was grinning and petting the puppies along with the children.

"I can't thank you enough," the woman continued. "I have a reward for you. Just wait here, let me get my checkbook."

"No –," Remy began but the woman had hurried away. Remy looked down at Jean. "Jillian, let's go. C'mon."

Jean was talking and laughing with the two children. Each of them was holding a puppy. "Jill!" Remy barked. Jean looked up at him, failing to realize he was speaking to her. Remy pointed at the door, indicating that they needed to leave. She gave him a look that relayed that she had no intention of leaving just yet. A door closed somewhere in the house. The two children bounded to their feet.

"Dad! Daddy!" they began to shout. "Bijou's home! We have puppies!" Remy felt himself break out into a cold sweat.

A tall man dressed in a button-down shirt and tan slacks appeared in the living room where they had gathered. The man set down his laptop case, apparently having just come home from work. He took in the sight of his two children, the dogs, and lastly Jean and Remy. The wife reentered the room, clutching her checkbook. The children were showing off their dogs and the triumphant return of their pampered pooch.

"Okay. You're welcome. Goodbye now," Remy said hurriedly, raising his hand in a hasty farewell as he began to back out the front door. Jean stood and Remy took her by the arm. "We're leaving. Have a nice night. Nice meeting you." He dragged at Jean's arm. She smiled at the family in a way that said she was sorry for how Remy was behaving.

"But –," the wife began helplessly. "The reward...? We had it on the flyers...?"

"No – no thanks," Remy said, halfway out the front door.

"Seeing you so happy is our reward," Jean told the family.

Remy abandoned Jean at the door and turned to start down the front walk. Jean was still on the front step, waving at the family. The father of the household joined her outside.

"Wait," he called out to Remy.

Remy flinched as if expecting a blow. He considered making a run for it. Instead, he slowly turned around. The man started towards him. He could feel the man assessing him. Remy was vaguely aware of how he looked: a rumpled man in a trench coat, his hair in disarray. Remy had to concede to Jean's appraisal of his facial hair; his usual stubble had gone far into beard territory. Remy was uncomfortable standing before this man who couldn't have been any older than Remy himself. The man, a father and husband with a nice home, his tiny dog yapping in the doorway, looked like Remy's exact opposite. It was like looking into a twisted funhouse mirror, except that Remy himself was the distorted image. The man extended his hand to Remy.

"Please, I insist," the man said, holding out a few hundred dollar bills to Remy.

Remy could feel his expression freeze hard on his face. "I don't want your money," he said stiffly, his jaw clenched.

Jean stepped forward and put her hand to the man's arm. She took the folded bills. "Really, it's not necessary," she told him with kindness. "But thank you."

Jean strode forward and took Remy by the arm, guiding him towards the front gate. She looked at him pointedly, which indicated to Remy that she would be pressuring him for an explanation as soon as they were outside of polite company. Remy reflected that Jean didn't need to be a telepath to convey her thoughts as they were so very obvious on her face. Remy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a splitting headache.

"Why don't I –," Jean began, but Remy was all ready moving past her to the driver's side door. Jean grabbed his arm. "Remy, stop." He pulled free and in an eye blink had picked the car keys from the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. He continued on to the car, Jean trailing behind.

Remy climbed into the car and started it as Jean joined him. "What's wrong?" Jean asked.

"I wish you would stop asking me so many questions," he told her.

"I'm just worried for you," Jean said.

"Don't trouble yourself," Remy responded.

"I have to worry, it's the only thing you let me do for you," Jean told him.

He cast a glance her way, wondering what she meant by the comment.

"You're upset about something. You can let yourself be angry, you know," she told him. "Or sad or whatever you need to feel. It's okay."

"No, it's really not," Remy said. "De only thing I got any control over is myself, and I barely got a handle on that as it is."

Her expression was sympathetic.

"I don't want your pity," he said as he drove away from the neat little house and the happy little family.

"I don't pity you," she replied softly. "I empathize with you. I know what it's like not to feel in control. I thought the two of us could relate to one another."

Remy felt cowed by this. It wasn't so long ago he was telling Cyclops the same thing, except then it was Scott who was failing to see their similarities. It was a struggle for him to draw any kind of correlation between Jean and himself. They were both from different planets, and they didn't even orbit the same sun.

"I know what it's like to struggle to try to find your own way...when it seems like everything else in your life has all ready been decided for you. You want to be in charge of your own destiny. But it feels like someone else has all ready made plans," Jean said to him.

" _Dieu_ , de one talent I got is messin' up everyone else's plans," Remy said. "My poppa's, Sinister's...heck, I'm best at botchin' up my own schemes. I think de only plan I got now is to avoid any _more_ plans."

"Just be glad you don't have any omnipotent beings pursuing you with designs on your future," Jean told him.

"You haven't met my father, have you?" Remy asked dryly. "What's de saying...? 'Man plans and God laughs.' Well, I'm sick of bein' de butt of de joke."

Jean smiled at him. "You seemed so upset back there. They were so happy to have their pet back. Doesn't that make you glad?"

Remy shrugged by way of response.

"You had one of your flashes, didn't you? You remembered something else? Something you had forgotten?" Jean persisted.

"Yup," Remy said but did not elaborate.

"I wonder if there's something I can do for you, to help control these flashes you're having," Jean offered. "If we can figure out what's triggering them..."

"D'you think you can stop it from happening again?" Remy asked her.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Jean told him.

"I thought you said you wanted t'help me."

"I do. But stopping the memories from coming back isn't going to help," Jean said.

"Well, I'm done bein' sabotaged by my own brain. I don't want t'remember any more of what I forgot," Remy insisted.

"Don't you want to get to the root of your problem?" Jean asked.

"I want it all erased, that's what I want," Remy said. "I don't want to think these thoughts any more."

"What thoughts are those?" Jean asked evenly, though there was a hint of concern that told him she was more worried than she was letting on.

"I was thinkin' about Cecelia," Remy said suddenly, and to his shock he realized it was true. The panic he felt when he recalled shooting that man had more to do with the fear that he would be found out. And that if Cece ever learned of what he'd done, she's never, ever forgive him. She'd seen her own father gunned down in the street. Remy had apparently shot a man in cold blood and he couldn't even feel remorse for it, only fear that he would be discovered.

Jean seemed to consider this. "Am I wrong in thinking that I detected some attraction there, between the two of you?"

"I wouldn't say you were exactly right," Remy hedged.

"She definitely had genuine compassion and concern for you," Jean told him.

"Cece's a doctor. It's her job t'be concerned."

"So the two of you aren't... involved?" Jean asked.

"She's far too practical t'get involved wit' me," Remy said.

"But you like her," Jean said.

"I like her just fine."

"In more than a friendly way," Jean added.

"I've liked plenty of girls in various ways," he said obliquely.

"And you care what she thinks about you," Jean said, ignoring his blasé tone. "It's important to you that she likes you back."

"I flirt wit' her some is all. She doesn't take a word seriously."

"And you don't want anything serious," Jean asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.

"Maybe I got so used t'having a girlfriend I couldn't touch, I went out and found de next best thing...a girl wit' an impregnable force field," Remy said glibly. "I got a type, y'see."

"Yes," Jean said. "As long as you can keep your distance – and know nothing can happen between the two of you, you won't have to worry about getting hurt again."

"How many clones a'you did you say there were?" Remy asked. "Can I trade you in for a less annoying model?"

Jean reached out and pinched the underside of his arm. When he squirmed and complained with the appropriate amount of pain, Jean said: "You shouldn't be so picky when women are hand-delivered to your front door."

"I think you got dropped off at de wrong place," Remy told her.

"I don't think so," Jean replied. "I think Popp – ah... I think your – your clone...knew of only one other person he could trust. Himself. He knew what he was doing."

Remy didn't know what to make of the idea of having a clone of himself. He felt the new incarnation of Sinister must truly be barmy, because who in their right mind would create replicas of a man who repeatedly betrayed everyone around him?

"And you trusted him?" Remy asked with some confusion. "That clone?"

"Yes," Jean said quietly. "He was... a dear person. He didn't like remembering things either. I thought I was protecting him, just letting him...be oblivious. I never did anything to help him. I only got him hurt and killed."

"Don't blame yourself. I'da done about anything to get away from Sinister," Remy said. "And I did."

"I did something unconscionable," Jean told him. She suddenly sounded miserable; whatever she was going to tell him next would be terrible.

Remy steeled himself to prepare for whatever she was going to say. He knew his job would be to come up with something comforting to tell her, to assuage her fears. He remained quiet, waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her to shift the burden of her guilt onto him. But Jean had seemingly lapsed into silence. She turned away from him to look out the windshield.

"What...?" Remy finally said. "Jean?"

"Never mind, Remy," she said tiredly.

"Do you want something t'eat?" he asked her. "Before we head back t'de apartment?"

"Sure," she said, her tone distant.

"What d'you want?" he asked.

"I don't care. You pick."

Now Remy was concerned. Jean had always had a definite opinion about what she wanted up until now.

"I guess your hair doesn't look so bad," he finally told her in the gaping silence. "It just got some getting used to, is all."

She fared him with a sardonic smile. "Gee, thanks," she said flatly. "I think I'll keep it like this. I think it's how Jillian would wear her hair."

"I think Jillian would also wear lower cut tops," Remy added, hoping to tease her out of her unhappiness.

"Jillian would like to get you reacquainted with a razor."

"I'm thinkin' I'm keepin' it," Remy told her and ran his hand over his whiskered chin. "Brad Pitt has a beard and I don't hear Angelina Jolie complaining."

"Well, you don't look anything like Brad Pitt. In fact, you're starting to look like Jesus," Jean said. "And I mean the Biblical figure, not your ex-gangster friend."

Remy smiled at her. "Let's go wrangle ourselves up some loaves and fishes, then enh?"

"Lenten fish fry?" Jean finally suggested. Remy could at least agree to that.

They found themselves something to eat for dinner at a Catholic church hall, packed in along long tables with other Bostonians. The hall was too loud to talk to one another, so they ate fried fish and chips without exchanging words. Afterwards, they returned to the drab little apartment. Jean was uncharacteristically quiet. Remy tried to think back on their conversation for a clue as to what he had said to make her go silent. He supposed everyone had their limit when it came to having their fill of him, and they'd reached Jean's in record time. Remy thought some more about Cecelia and wondered if he should call her like she had wanted him to. He still had Daredevil's phone, though the charge was running low. Remy figured he could at least call his voice mail. He left Jean in the apartment and went out onto the little covered balcony just off the kitchen. He dialed the number to the school to access his voicemail and punched in his passcode.

"You have thirty-two unheard messages," said the voice mail operator.

"Whuh-oh," Remy said.

He started with the first unheard message. It was a long-winded tirade from Tony Stark. He mentioned something about an alias: Moreux, but Remy cut him off mid-rant after getting the gist of his litany of complaints. He deleted the message, and moved on to the next. The second was from his housekeeper, Aspen, who told him she would be in to water his plants. She told him to have a blessed day. Kitty Pryde had called to remind him where he could go to take his GED exam. Remy ignored that message; Remy wasn't about to be tested. There were a few messages from Carl Denti; the first was Denti wanting to know where Remy had gone. The second message wondered where he could expect to pick up his SUV. Remy wasn't ready to break the news about the vehicle (which had probably been chopped up and distributed down the East Coast by now) to Denti just yet. As the next message began to play, Remy recognized the New Orleans area code. Before he could skip the message he'd heard Jean-Luc's voice with its usual disappointed tone, the one that he used specifically for speaking to his son. Jean-Luc wanted Remy to return his calls. Jean-Luc threatened to get Tante Mattie involved. Remy cringed at that and moved on to the next message. He discovered that Cecelia had called.

"I realized that you weren't going to call me," Cece said with an authoritative air. "Maybe because you all ready know what it is I am going to say. Or that you choose to ignore things you'd rather not hear..."

_This gal is fast on the draw,_ Remy thought.

"I would have liked to have finished our conversation from before – before you went and got yourself into _another_ screwed up situation," she continued.

_What conversation?_ Remy wondered. _I can't hardly remember what day it is, let alone –_

"I know you like being needed," Cece said.

_Oh, right. That one. The drunken one,_ Remy recalled. _Mardi Gras. I can't_ not _get into trouble_ _that day._

"But let me tell you Remy, it works both ways. And as much as you like feeling needed, you sure do seem to hate needing someone back. You don't want to depend on anyone," Cece continued then said matter-of-factly: "I get that, I completely relate to that. So you're right when you said I don't need you. I don't."

_Okay, ouch,_ Remy thought. _Well, she's straight to the point._

"You seem to think this is a problem... I wish I could have said all this to you before you walked out the door into another disaster...," she added hurriedly. "But maybe instead of looking for someone who _needs_ you so bad, why don't you try looking for someone who just _wants_ to be with you? Who chooses to be with you?"

Remy wasn't sure what to think about that. Was she inferring that she _wanted_ to be with him? He probably shouldn't read into it. Cecelia was pretty blunt. If she wanted to tell him something, she'd say it straight up.

"Anyway, I want to urge you to take Jean back to the X-Men. I know you can – can be very _convincing_ , Remy. So just try to talk her into it. But I know how much you love to be the hero, and you're probably not going to listen to me." Cecelia hung up without saying goodbye. She was probably mad.

_Latinas sure do talk fast_. _Must be a cultural thing,_ Remy thought, his mind veering away from any particularly pointed arguments Cecelia had just stabbed at him.

There were still more messages, but he disconnected the call, feeling worn out. His head still throbbed dully. He wandered back into the kitchen where Jean was seated at the small kitchenette. Her hair was wet from the shower and she was wearing pink pajamas.

"I won't ask if you feel all right," Jean told him. "Because it's obvious that you don't."

"I look that bad, enh?"

"Why don't you go to bed?" she asked.

"De couch suits me fine," he replied and tiredly scraped his hair back from his face with his hand as he moved doggedly towards the parlor.

"I'm not arguing with you," Jean said and stood, blocking his way to the hall. She left the kitchen. Remy followed her and watched as she sat on the couch. She fluffed the sad little pillow and then lay down on her side, her hands under her cheek like a parody of small child sleeping.

"Get up off de couch," Remy told her and waved his hand as if to shoo her away. "Go to bed."

"We agreed I'd take the bed the first night, and you would take it the next," Jean told him.

"I didn't agree to nothin'," Remy told her. "Move."

"Make me," Jean retorted, now looking _and_ sounding exactly like a small child.

Remy huffed impatiently and strode purposefully towards Jean. She cringed back a bit when he stood over her, his hands on his hips. He surveilled her for a moment, but she failed to move. Remy reached down and picked her up off the couch while she complained loudly. Jean grabbed onto the couch cushions and as Remy lifted her, she took the pillows with her. Remy tried shaking her to knock the pillows free. Jean instead began hitting him with one of the cushions and kicking her legs.

"Put me down!" she shouted.

Remy wrangled Jean into the bedroom while she abused him with the couch cushions. He dumped her onto the mattress.

"Give me that!" he said, and tried to pull the couch cushion from her grip. She hugged it in a bear hug to her chest.

"No, get off!" she said and kicked out a foot at him.

Remy grabbed her ankle and flipped her over to the opposite side of the bed. "Fine, have it your way," Remy told her as she struggled up into sitting position. Remy lay down on the bed beside her and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at the ceiling.

Jean glared at him before flinging herself to her side to stare at the wall opposite with her back to Remy. Remy glanced over at Jean, saw her adjust her pillow in an angry sort of way. She resumed her side-sleeping position, knees bent, one foot resting on of of the other, hands beneath her cheek. Remy shook his head and sighed. He wasn't going to be able to talk Jean into anything, she was as stubborn as a mule. Remy thought sleep was unlikely, but he closed his eyes anyway. He usually slept fitfully, if he slept at all. The times he did fall asleep usually came with postcoital oblivion. He thought he probably shouldn't entertain any of _those_ thoughts, not with Jean laying less than a foot away. The bed was better than the couch, as far as comfort went. Jean's body was practically a furnace, blasting off heat. Remy hadn't been comfortable and he hadn't been warm for awhile. Listening to Jean's breathing lulled him and he eventually drifted off. And even though the dreams came as they always did, they weren't as bad as they normally were.

* * *

Next time: A whole lot happens and then abruptly ends with a cliffhanger.


	34. On The Line

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Four Weeks Ago**

Jean lay on her side, staring at the yellowed wall, listening to Remy's even breathing. When she felt assured that he was asleep, she let herself cry. She had gone along with Remy partly because she hadn't been ready to go home just yet...and at the same time, she didn't want to be alone. But she'd also followed Remy because he was familiar, at least on the surface. It was difficult to realize that Remy wasn't Poppet, when they looked and sounded exactly alike. She couldn't admit to herself that Poppet was truly dead, not when she could catch the briefest glimpses of the clone in Remy LeBeau. Sinister had stripped away all the troublesome aspects of Remy's personality to create his ideal pet. He had taken Gambit's rather malleable sense of loyalty, removed any sense of personal ethics, and translated it into Poppet's blind devotion. Poppet had been funny, even silly, but lacked Gambit's wit. Poppet was clever, but not cunning. Jean felt somewhat disgusted with herself. That she, like Sinister, might have preferred the company of the pet creation to the genuine article. Just like Sinister, she had taken advantage of the clone's uncomplicated desire to please. She felt horrible guilt for having used him, sacrificed his life for her own comfort and safety. How could she have done such a selfish thing? There was no one she could confess to; telling Remy what she had done would not do him any good. It would make an awkward situation even more awkward.

_Remy, I slept with your clone and used him._ Jean could only imagine what kind of reaction he might have to that.

She sniffled as quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb her sleeping partner. Jean could tell from the shuffling of his thoughts that he was dreaming again, but she was not going to rouse him this time. Jean turned over onto her back and let her head fall to the side. Remy had left the bedroom light on. The lamp shown down on him from the nightstand. She took the time to study his profile. Remy was handsome, there was no doubt in her mind about that. There were plenty of handsome men amongst the X-Men, but only a few were truly striking. Warren Worthington, for certain, was as classically handsome as as his codename inferred. Remy had a different sort of attractiveness, as unkempt as he was. The growth of hair on his jaw only seemed to emphasize his features, framing his high cheekbones and unusual eyes. She reached out and lightly touched his chin with her forefinger; it wasn't as scratchy as she imagined it would be.

When Remy had grabbed her off the couch and angled her into the bedroom, she had experienced a charged sort of thrill. Then he had tossed her onto the bed, grasped her ankle and flipped her onto her stomach. She had felt her face flush, and not from embarrassment. Jean could have easily stopped him from taking her off the couch, but she didn't. Instead she allowed him to manhandle her over the threshold like the world's most awkward groom. It seemed, however, that whatever attraction she felt towards him was not reciprocated. He had pretty much told her that he didn't like what she'd done to her hair, after all.

Jean sat up and carefully leaned over his sleeping form to turn off the lamp. When she realized she couldn't reach the switch, she used her telekinesis to click off the light. As she moved to settle back on her side of the bed, Jean glanced down and saw the soft red glow of Remy's eyes looking up at her in the darkness.

"Uhm – I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She saw him blink slowly. "I had a dream," he mumbled. "You were in it."

"I didn't –," Jean began. "I mean, it wasn't me."

Jean watched as he seemed to become more aware, blinking away the fuzziness of sleep. He continued to gaze up at her.

"What was your dream about?" she asked.

"Mmn...what it's always about...," he began slowly. "Tunnels, or alleys, or hallways...and me walking down them. For what feels like forever."

"Are you lost?" Jean asked, her voice hushed in the darkness of the room.

"Yeah. But then I turned a corner and opened a door and you were there," Remy answered.

"Then what happened?"

"You showed me how to find my way out," he responded.

"Where did we go?" Jean asked.

He shook his head against the pillow. "I dunno. I woke up," he said. After a moment he added: "We was both of us kids. You were younger than you are now, but older than me."

"Well, that's impossible. I'm much, much younger than you," Jean told him with mock sternness.

Remy sighed. "That's too bad. I prefer older women."

"In that case, I should check and see what my new driver's license says," Jean said, still propped on her elbow, leaning over him. "Just how old did you make me, anyway?"

She could make out the faint outline of his grin. Quietly, he said: "More wishful thinkin', mebbe?"

Jean tentatively lowered her head and kissed him softly on the lips, feeling them yield to her touch. She pressed her mouth against his upper lip, feeling his coarse facial hair beneath her lips. Then she kissed the fullness of his lower lip, then the corner of his mouth, as if testing each part of him. Jean felt Remy's hand cup the back of her head and he returned her kiss. Their lips parted as they tasted one another. He moved towards her and she slowly lay back onto the mattress, his weight gently covering her for a moment. Her fingers traced the sides of his face, his bearded jaw, before she sunk her hands into the thickness of his hair. Remy kissed her deeply, inhaling against her cheek before gently pulling away.

"Let's not do somethin' you'll regret," he said softly. "I don't want you t'look at me tomorrow and be sorry."

Jean closed her eyes, letting her head sink back into the pillow. She was ashamed at her own foolishness. She could no longer deny the differences between Poppet and Remy LeBeau. She felt near to tears. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Don't be sorry, _chère._ You couldn't help yourself. It happens every time I go t'lay down. Women can't help but jump my bones."

Jean let out a breathless sort of laugh and wiped her hand over her face. "You're incorrigible."

Remy kissed her cheek and whispered into her hair: "I'd be whatever you need right now. But remember...? It's Lent. And if it weren't for me tryin' to be good...by de time you'd leave dis bed, you'd be walkin' bowlegged."

Jean let out a surprised gasp and pushed against his shoulder. "I am appalled!" she announced, but she wasn't really. Instead, she felt the flush of heat rise to her face again.

She could hear his dark laugh as he moved away from her. His eyes were bright in the darkness. "That was the PG version. Imagine what I really wanted t'say."

"You know, if you weren't so handsome, you'd never get away with saying half the things you do," Jean told him as she crossed her arms to hug herself.

"Handsome?" Remy asked. "I thought I could say what I wanted on account of no one was listenin' in de first place."

Jean turned to look at him, able to make out his features now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He was laying on his side facing her. She turned towards him and brushed the hair from his forehead. She pressed her hand to the side of his face. "Maybe everyone can see through your act. So they choose to ignore you."

"That could be," Remy admitted. He took her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand near his chest. "I'd understand if you wanted to head back home tomorrow."

Jean felt a tremor of trepidation race through her. "I don't think I'm ready."

"Folks would be happy to see you," Remy said.

"I'm not as confident as you are," Jean told him. "I can't...I can't fathom – what it would be like, to have to live up to that kind of... I don't even know what – what people will _want_ from me. I don't think I can give anything more of myself right now. I can't confront those kinds of expectations."

"Lucky for you, I'm a man of low expectations," Remy told her.

"You're not who I'm worried about," Jean told him. She was tired of being afraid. She was afraid of Sinister...but to be afraid of her own friends?

"Logan?" Remy asked.

"Intimidating, isn't it? Having a school posthumously named for you? What do you think he meant by it?" Jean asked.

"I dunno," Remy replied. "A grand gesture of some kind, I suppose."

"A grand gesture meant for me...or for Scott?" Jean asked pointedly.

Remy hesitated. "Enh, _chère,_ if it makes any difference t'you, the two of them don't need you as an excuse to butt heads."

"I don't know if it makes a difference, but it certainly doesn't help," Jean told him flatly.

"I'm sure it'd do Logan good," Remy said candidly. "He could do with an attitude adjustment, missin' both you and Kurt now, too. He'd be pleased as punch t'see you."

"For how long?" Jean asked.

"Ain?"

"For how long...would Logan be pleased to see me?" Jean continued.

"What do you mean?" Remy asked.

"If I went back home. Whatever that would entail. How long would Logan be happy to... have me there? Before he begins to wonder: _does she still love Scott_?"

"Do you?"

"Yes, of course," she answered. "I'll always have feelings for him. I'll always care what happens to him."

"Even after – what happened?" Remy asked, his voice was strangely hopeful, as if he dare not believe her words.

"I could never fully trust him again," Jean said quietly. "There could never be a romantic relationship between us."

"Can you go on loving a body but not trust them?" Remy asked.

"Once trust has been broken...there's so much that needs to be rebuilt, or built from new. And time and energy and commitment. And is that something I can really afford? I don't know."

"When you add: 'saving a world that fears and hates us' to de mix...," Remy said. "But if you thought it was worth it. You could make de time."

"I just wanted Scott to be happy," Jean told him. "Even if it wasn't with me. I suppose I can say I loved someone selflessly. I gave up my pride, my identity, my life… Maybe that sounds romantic. But that kind of love, it's not sustaining. I can't do it again."

"But would you want to?" Remy asked, his tone regretful. "Seems like you don't get back what all you put in."

"It can drain you," she said wearily. "A person can burn out. But I can't regret it."

"No?"

"If I have another chance, then I don't want to live a life of regret."

"I wish I could say de same," Remy told her. "I got plenty to regret."

"Are you going to keep on living in the past, Remy?"

"Hard not to when it keeps comin' back to haunt me. It must be nice to be livin' wit' no regrets. But let me ask... if there's no regrets, then how can there be remorse? And if you're not sorry, how can you expect to be forgiven? But maybe that don't bother some as much as it do me."

"Is that what you want?" Jean asked quietly. "Forgiveness?"

"It's a primary concern."

Jean was silent for a time. She could see the faint glint of light from the ring she still wore on the hand that Remy was holding in his own. "Do you think you would ever get married again?" she asked.

Remy had lapsed into thoughtful daze. He gave a little jolt. "Heck, no," was his quick response. "Would you?"

"I can't imagine," Jean replied. "Not right now. But...I always thought that some day, I would have children. Not children from the future, or children from a different timeline or –. I mean...a child of my own. To raise in a normal kind of way."

"You can still have kids without gettin' married," Remy told her.

"I know that it's _physically_ possible," Jean said obviously, tugging on his hand. "I meant that...Well, if you can make the kind of commitment to having a child, you can make a commitment to one other person to help you raise that child."

"De people who raised me up weren't married," Remy responded. "They had a commitment, but they weren't married."

"Did they love each other?" Jean asked.

"Bleagh – no," Remy said, and he seemed a little appalled at the thought. "I mean, not in a romantic sense. I suppose they must have cared about one another in a way...to have been friends for so long. They had more of a partnership."

"I see."

"Though considering de end result, that might not have been de best example to give," Remy concluded.

"Don't be mean to yourself," Jean told him. "Even if you don't want to get married again, I should give you your ring back."

"You can hang on to it. It suits you. I don't need it."

Jean wriggled her fingers in his. "Did you buy it for Rogue?" she asked.

"No...I didn't buy it," he answered slowly.

"Where did you get it?"

"I don't recall," Remy admitted.

"Another forgotten memory?" she asked.

"Seems so."

"Did you and Rogue break up?"

"Yes. Maybe. I guess so," Remy answered. "In any case, it's over now. At de very least there's no more uncertainty. Are we together, are we broke up? Are we on a break? Are we just friends? No. It's over."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Is it – was it her powers...that you couldn't overcome that obstacle?"

Remy sighed. "No. She's got control over her powers now."

"Oh," Jean said, confused. "But then...? Can I ask what happened?"

She wondered if he would answer. He was still looking at her, she could see his eyes studying hers. "She could come up wit' a _million_ reasons not to be wit' me," he said finally. "If it wasn't her powers, it was some other reason. But she couldn't come up wit' _one_ reason to not be...with somebody else."

"She left you?"

"She moved on. I stayed in de same place. What you were sayin' – about trust. I thought it was trust, or lack of it, that kept me an' Rogue apart. I knew she'd never trust me completely...not that I blame her any."

"You would have to trust her back," Jean told him. She spoke with kind sympathy when she said: "And you can't do that, can you?"

"Trust didn't have anything t'do wit' it," he replied guardedly. "In de end, she wanted to be wit' someone who – well, I can't see how anyone could trust him. No. It wasn't about trusting or not trusting. It was just her not _wanting_ me."

"It must be lonely, not having anyone to trust," she told him.

"I only feel lonely when I'm with other people," he answered.

"That doesn't make any sense," Jean said.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"I had hoped that you and Rogue would work things out someday. You both deserve to be happy," Jean told him.

It seemed in the dark it was easier to have a conversation with him. Though he was less reticent, he was still withholding all of his emotions. He was silent while he struggled to prevent them from welling over.

"I don't know what I deserve," he told her. "I only hope to live long enough to even out de scales, to give back what I owe. Do my atonement now, so I don't got to pay later."

"There's no one waiting to punish you, Remy. Stop your self-flagellation. You have to let go of this guilt."

"I can't. It's like my religion," he sighed and rolled onto his back. He still held her hand against his chest.

"I thought you said you weren't a practicing Catholic."

"Believe me, even wit'out de religious part, it's an ingrained thing. Ex-Catholics just find something else to be guilty about."

"Doesn't confession play a role in appeasing that?" she asked.

"I usually skip that part and go straight on into penance."

"If you want, I could just give you a good hard spanking and we can call it even," Jean suggested.

She felt his chest move under her hand as he let out a soft laugh. "I think you've been sent by de Devil to tempt me, woman."

"I have this apple you're going to want to try...," Jean said.

"Dis is de longest Lent ever," Remy moaned.

~ oOo ~

Jean thought that since they had not received any phone calls from the doughnut shop, that she and Remy should go into the city.

"It's supposed to be your spring break," Jean told him. "We could go do some sightseeing."

Remy seemed amenable to just about anything, but did not "sightsee" in the manner that Jean was accustomed to. She tried to take him along the Freedom Trail to show him some of the significant historic sites, but he kept wandering off of it. Jean would go to point something out to him and find she had lost him in a farmer's market, or that he'd gotten into an debate with a Ben Franklin impersonator, or that he'd become intrigued with Christian Scientology at the _Christian Science Monitor_ , or had disappeared into Chinatown. After awhile, Jean gave up and continued on the Trail alone. She was in Quincy Market of Faneuil Hall when he resurfaced to bring her a cupcake. She forgot her aggravation with him.

The rest of the week included a Cézanne exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts that Remy seemed enthusiastic about (though that waned a bit when Jean informed him they could go to look, but not touch). After the museum was the Symphony Orchestra. When Remy began to look forlornly at every pub and brewery they passed, Jean decided to remove all temptation and take him into Cambridge's Harvard University. She at least knew she couldn't lose him amidst the neat grassy lawns of Harvard Yard.

"Hahvid Yahd," Remy said.

"Shush, Remy, will you stop?" Jean told him. He'd been imitating a Boston accent all day.

"Hey, look at that," Remy said and pointed at the Charles River. They were walking down a red brick walk. Remy immediately veered off of it and began towards the riverbank. He started over a bridge and looked down as a rowing crew raced beneath them. They walked to the opposite side of the bridge to watch the crew emerge from beneath them to continue against the river's current.

"Let's go do that," Remy told her.

"They're not going to just let you have a boat. It's a private institution," Jean said.

"Well, it won't hurt to ask, will it?" Remy said. "Look how fast they go."

"What makes you think you can even row that boat?" Jean asked him.

"I've done it at de gym before," he told her. "On de rowing machine. And I know de song. _Row, row, row de boat_..."

Remy did manage to convince a boat house manager to allow them to borrow one of the lightweight boats. After brief instruction, Remy set off. Jean faced where they were going while Remy pulled at the oars. He pulled harder until satisfied with the rate of speed. Jean watched the muscles of his arms and chest work as he established a steady rhythm. He'd had to take off his coat as he grew warm from rowing.

"I can't see where I'm going!" he shouted to her. He seemed pretty happy about it.

Jean smiled at him. "I'll keep us on course. Just don't tip us into the river."

Jean came to realize that physical exertion only made Remy more energetic, and now he was not sleeping at all. At least, he never returned to the bed they'd shared that second night. He woke her early one morning asking if she wanted to go find a gym.

"That sounds like a horrible idea," she told him grumpily, turning her face to the pillow. She was tired and didn't feel particularly well.

"There's a CrossFit center down de road," he told her.

"What is CrossFit?" Jean moaned into the pillow.

"It's fun...One time I threw up."

"Will you get _out_ of here," she said, swatting him away.

When she woke a few hours later, she found that Remy had still not returned. Jean dressed, ate a piece of burned toast, and set to tidying the small apartment. She took out the trash (stale doughnut, days old newspaper, tags and bags from her shopping spree), and packed up the dirty clothes that needed laundered. If Remy was unhappy about the toothbrush incident, he was going to be even more upset about her washing his shorts. But she tossed them into the bag with the other clothes and started off towards the nearest laundromat. She had never been to one, but she felt pretty confident that she could figure it out once she got there. At the laundromat, Jean began sorting out the clothing. She searched the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt and found several crumpled hundred dollar bills in the pocket. It was the reward money from returning the dog. Jean thought to put it back into the safe to replace the money she and Remy had borrowed. As she moved to the darks, the pair of jeans she was holding in her hands suddenly began to vibrate. Jean dropped them onto the worn tile floor, surprised. She realized the sound she was hearing was that of a cellphone. Jean scooped the jeans back up and searched the pockets. She found Matt Murdock's phone. Thinking one of Matt's clients may be looking for him, Jean decided to answer the call – just in case she could point the caller in the right direction.

"Hello?" she said.

She heard the sound of ambient street traffic and the sudden cutting in and out of a voice.

"Hello?" Jean repeated.

There was a second or two of dead silence and then: " – Jean?"

Jean paused. "Matt? Matt, is that you? I can't hear you, the connection keeps cutting out."

"Train stay –," Matt said.

"You're in a train station?" Jean repeated.

" – a lead on the assassin... on my way to Bost –," Matt continued.

"Matt?" Jean paused, then said in a hushed voice: "Did you say you found the assassin?"

"Meet me –," Matt was saying.

"Yes! Where?" Jean said, searching her handbag for something to write with.

"South End –," Matt told her.

"In Boston? Where?" Jean asked.

" – Moreux –," Matt said.

Three abrupt tones cut into the conversation. "The phone is dying, Matt! Where in Boston?" She had found a pen and had written on the palm of her hand: 'South End, Boston, More-o.'

There was sudden silence. Jean took the phone from where she had pinned it to her ear with her shoulder. She looked at the phone's surface. The battery had died. "Dammit!" she said. Just then, the buzzer on the washer went off, signaling the end of the wash cycle. Jean set the phone down onto a dryer and pulled open the washer. All the whites inside were now pink.

"Augh!" Jean shouted into the washer. She began pulling out the clothing in large handfuls. She found Remy's red shorts mixed into the load. "No! Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"Ex _cuse_ me!" said an outraged voice. Jean looked up from the washer, damp shorts clutched in her hand. She saw a woman leading away her small child, who was looking at Jean and giggling into his hands.

"Oh, my gosh," Jean said with embarrassment, her face coloring. "I'm so sorry! It just came out. I'm sorry, I never swear, I – I swear!"

The mother gave her a disbelieving look. Jean hurriedly stuffed the damp clothes into her canvas bag and left the laundromat. She returned to the apartment to find it was still empty. Now she was angry. Where was Remy? Why did he leave her here for so long, alone? Jean dumped the laundry onto the couch. She glared at the ugly painting on the wall. With a small growl, she stepped up onto the couch cushions and pulled the painting down. She set the painting on its end to lean up against the couch. Jean turned back to look at the wall safe, determined to figure out how to open it. She took the money from her pocket and then concentrated on the safe. Jean had a vague idea there were tumblers or some such inside, that she could move around until the safe unlocked. She also thought she had seen safe-crackers in movies listen to the door with a stethoscope or something. Jean pressed her ear to the door and used her telekinesis to fiddle with the safe's innards. She didn't hear anything and the door remained locked.

With a frown, Jean studied the safe. If she couldn't finesse it open, she would just force the lock to disengage. With some effort, she shot the bolt back into the door. Jean pulled the handle and the door swung open.

"Ha!" Jean said triumphantly. She placed the money into the safe. There was a handgun inside. Jean cautiously picked it up and held it in her hand. It felt heavy and dangerous. From behind her, she heard the sounds of a key turning in a lock. Jean hastily replaced the gun as Remy entered the room.

He looked at her quizzically, then closed the apartment door. "What de heck you doin'?" he asked her, in a not very patient sort of way.

"I got the safe open," Jean told him with a sly smile.

"I can see that," Remy said, his tone sarcastic. "Did ya think t'disarm de alarm?"

"There's no alarm," Jean said.

"Uhm...yeah, dere is," Remy told her.

Jean cast about the room, making a show of searching for an alarm. "Well, I can't _hear_ anything."

"On account of it bein' a _silent_ alarm!" Remy shouted.

"Oh," Jean said, her shoulders drooping. "Uhm. Whoops?"

Remy put his hands through his hair. "Agh!" he said with aggravation.

"I'm sorry," Jean said, stepping down from the couch. "Can you turn it off?"

"Why? It's too late now," he snapped and moved towards the safe. He slammed the door shut. "They'll have seen it up at de shop. And now they'll all be thinkin' what kinda know-nothing _kouyon_ thief can't crack a safe? Or worse, they'll assume dis place got compromised!"

"Oh, Remy! I'm sorry. I can tell them it was me. It was an accident!" Jean told him.

"Yeah, great!" Remy said, holding his arms out to his sides. "So besides bein' a dummy, they'll say I can't control my woman neither!"

"I'm sorry – control your _what_?" Jean said taking offense and putting her hands on her hips.

"Don't give me that feminist –," Remy began when his expression suddenly shifted.

He strode forward and dropped his hands onto her shoulders. Jean took a surprised intake of breath as his mouth closed hard on hers. She belatedly responded, shocking herself by kissing him back while fisting her hand in his overlong hair. The kiss was prolonged and ardent. Remy seemed to relax into the embrace, the last of his resistance melted away and his mouth became less fierce and more gentle. His arms wrapped around her body.

The phone in the kitchen began to ring. Remy jolted as if from a shock and broke their embrace. "Ah, aitch – ee – double-hockey sticks!"

"Don't answer it," Jean told him breathlessly.

Remy sighed a defeated sigh. "I know for whom de bell tolls." He slouched off towards the kitchen.

Jean trailed after him, lingering in the dark hallway while Remy answered the phone.

"'Ello?" Remy said. There was a long and pregnant pause. " _P_ _è_ _re_?" he said after a moment, confusion in his voice. He listened for a few moments longer, then replaced the phone into the cradle.

Jean could sense Remy's growing alarm. When he appeared in the hallway, she asked timidly: "What is it? Is it very bad?"

Remy seemed shell-shocked. "It was my father," he told her.

Remy left to go meet his father soon after, insisting that Jean remain behind.

"I could just explain – ," Jean began as she followed him towards the door.

"Dis ain't about de safe," Remy interrupted and pulled open the door. "And if I bring you along, I'm sure to get one of his lectures."

"What lecture is that?" Jean asked, her hand on the doorframe.

Remy sighed and looked Jean over. "De one about me, and women, and how much trouble women always seem t'cause me on account of I can't help myself."

Jean wanted to apologize to him again, but as she looked into his eyes she realized he was too lost in his own mercurial thoughts to be reasoned with. She stepped back as he pulled the door closed behind him. Jean sighed and rubbed her hand over her face. With her palm over her eyes, she felt a sudden wash of realization; she had just smeared pen ink across her face. Jean looked down into the smudged writing on her hand. Matt had wanted to meet up with them, but she didn't know when or exactly where. The laptop case was sitting on top of the coffee table. Jean opened it and removed the laptop. She searched for train stops near the South End of Boston, then a schedule. A train from New York City would take three, maybe four hours to arrive.

There was still the matter of the name Matt had given: More-o. Jean typed it into Google and realized she must have spelled it incorrectly. 'Moreo' was pronounced 'more-e-oh,' not 'more-oh' as Jean had heard. She thought it must be French, like the last name Remy had given her on her fake driver's license. He'd taught her how to say it: ' _le gree,_ ' or French for 'gray.' Jean tried Moreaux, Moreau, and finally Moreux. There was only one listing for someone in South End with that name: Helen Moreux.

Jean wrote down the address. She would have to find some way to get into town without a car. She called a taxi service to come pick her up. South End was a beautiful part of the city, full of bow-front brick row houses in the Parisian style adorned with black shutters and doors. The homes had intricate wrought-iron balconies and stair-rails. The sidewalks were red brick. Jean felt confident enough on her own, as there were others on the street touring the quaint Victorian streets and dining in the upscale restaurants. She had the cab driver leave her near the Back Bay Amtrak Station. From there, she began towards the address she had found. Jean stood across the street from the house, looking up at it thorough the bare-limbed trees lining the street. She could see a woman perched on the balcony of the third floor. The woman held one arm across her stomach, the other was aloft, a cigarette in her fingers. She blew a stream of smoke into the chill March air. When the woman finished her cigarette, she dropped the butt into a ornate urn on the balcony and returned inside. Jean thought that the woman didn't look anything like an assassin. She was a woman in her mid-forties, her long brown hair pinned into a roll at her nape, dressed in plain but well-made clothing. Even from this distance, Jean thought that the woman might be attractive.

Jean sat on a nearby bench. The weather wasn't so unpleasant. It was blustery, but the sun was shining. Jean was wearing the tan wool half-trench she had bought for herself; it had black buttons that matched her black cloche hat (which hid her hair _that was_ _not purple_ ) and leather gloves. She pretended to play with the cellphone, even though it was no longer charged. She covertly watched the house, looking for signs of movement. After an hour had passed, Jean had to admit she was cold. The daylight was beginning to fade. Jean reached out her mind to brush that of the woman inside the house. The overall emotion she was able to glean from the woman was overwhelmingly sad. Jean withdrew.

There was a small French restaurant nearby. Jean decided she had had enough with staking out the residence for now. She would go and get herself a bowl of onion soup and warm up. After dinner, Jean continued to stroll through the neighborhood. She passed a small newsstand, a bakery, and more residences. Jean returned to the street to continue her surveillance. As she rounded the block, she saw the mysterious Helen Moreux stepping down her front stairs. She had a small peach-colored poodle under her arm. When she reached the base of the steps, she set the animal down. The woman and the dog walked across the street. Once in the park on the opposite side, Jean saw the woman light yet another cigarette.

Jean thought: _Well this is my chance,_ and began towards the woman's front door. Jean had the door unlocked before she had reached the top step. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. The interior was a short narrow foyer with dark wood floors and crisp white walls. There was little adornment in such a narrow space, just a small side table over which hung a mirror. Jean proceeded to the staircase. She thought to go up to the top floor, where she had seen the woman sitting in the window. Jean raced up the staircase, keeping her footsteps light. She turned at the landing and set up a second flight of steps. At the top she found herself in a loft with slanted ceilings. The room was long and narrow. There was a dark mahogany desk at one end in front of the bow-fronted window. To the right of the desk was a flat-panel television set mounted on the wall. It was turned to a news station, but the volume was muted. On the screen, an anchor person moved his mouth and the stock ticker crawled beneath him.

Jean moved to the desk. There was a laptop sitting open on the desktop. With a finger, she jiggled the mouse, waking the monitor. She saw the woman's e-mail was open. It was full of news alerts and messages from Fidelity and various banks. Jean minimized the window, then moved the cursor to the My Documents folder. Slowly, Jean sat in the soft leather desk chair. As she explored the woman's files, she realized Helen must be a day-trader, moving around money from account to account, purchasing and selling shares of stock as her e-mails came in with tips and advice.

Jean glanced up and saw the bookshelf to the right side of the room. It was filled with scientific journals and books, all of which had to do with genetics. Jean even recognized one of the volumes as something Doctor Hank McCoy had written. Her brow furrowed. Why would a stock-trader have a collection of genetics books?

Jean turned back to the computer. She opened the woman's internet browser and clicked on the browser history. Jean saw that the woman had gone to the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning website. Jean thought it was perplexing seeing her name in this stranger's computer. Jean saw the other searches the woman had performed. They were all to do with mutants, and one mutant in particular: Remy LeBeau. Jean felt a little jolt of panic. Amidst the other folders and documents saved were various low-resolution images of Remy, taken from the media and captured in screen-grabs from the news. The woman had Remy's address, his phone number, his class schedule. She had news clippings detailing the exploits of the X-Men, each of them featuring in some small way the X-Man known to the world at large as Gambit.

_Good lord, the woman is some kind of crazy stalker_ , Jean thought.

On the floor under the desk was an open briefcase. When she pulled the case out from under the desk, Jean peered inside it. There was a small velvet pouch set on top of a stack of documents. Jean touched it, realizing there was a ring inside. Beneath the pouch was a manila folder full of documents. Jean opened it. The top page was a legal agreement of some kind, signed by Helen Moreux. It looked to be a release form, giving certain permissions to a government institution named Black Womb. Jean felt chilled. There was another packet inside the case, a thick business envelope. Jean picked it up. She opened the envelope, revealing a thick wad of hundred dollar bills inside.

A soft chime signaled an incoming e-mail. Jean glanced up from the envelope of cash and reached for the mouse. She reopened the e-mail window and saw yet another message had arrived. Something else caught her attention. As she watched, she saw that the message count in the "Drafts" folder had changed from one to two. Jean thought that strange. She opened the drafts folder. Inside she saw one message that had been composed but not sent. The message read: _Is it too late to change my mind? I will still pay the agreed-upon amount._ The second draft's subject line read: _Contract has been fulfilled._ Jean watched as the first message suddenly disappeared, deleted by someone else with the same account name and password.

_What contract?_ Jean thought, her heart sinking with dread. Jean dropped the envelope back into the case, feeling as if the money were tainted.

There came a muffled echo of the front door closing two stories below. Jean's heart leapt. The woman had returned. Jean rose to her feet, her entire body taught as a bowstring. She thought of the numerous photos, the information from the school, the articles, the strange obsession with genetics, the e-mail, and the money. Why was this woman obsessed with Remy? Did she, for some reason hatched by her delirious mind, hire someone to kill Remy LeBeau? Did she intend to pay the murderer? Jean felt a dark red mantle of anger close over her head, suffocating her. Poppet was dead, and though Jean felt responsible, she wasn't the one to have killed him. Jean would make someone pay for that. For murdering her protector, Jean was going to kill this Helen Moreux.

* * *

Next time: Some people show their pain by crying, like Jean. Some people try to bury it, like Remy. And some people just get angry...


	35. Endless Probabilities

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

Wolverine left the forest surrounding the grounds and marched back into the school, taking the back entrance, his arrival going unannounced. It had taken him awhile to get his head in a place where he wouldn't consider immediate evisceration as a go-to response at the first imposition. He checked in at the front office and found it empty. The kitchen too, was vacant. At last, he turned to the headmaster's office. Wolverine pushed open the door to find Rachel seated behind the desk. Joanna was seated in Bobby's customary seat, her feet propped up on the desktop.

"What are you two doing in here?" Wolverine demanded.

Joanna continued to methodically chew, a large deli sandwich held in her grip. "Moffing," she said, her mouth full.

"Logan," Rachel said as she stood. Her face looked pained. "I've been trying to reach you. Where have you been?"

"Where the hell is Kitty?" Logan asked.

"She's downstairs with Hank," Rachel said as Logan turned. She called after him: "Wait! Hey!"

Logan started marching towards the infirmary. "Where's Storm?"

"She's downstairs, too," Rachel said as she hurried after Logan. "With Bobby."

"What're they having a party?" Logan asked. "Doesn't anybody do any work around this place?"

"No, that's what I was trying to tell you," Rachel said, finally catching up to Wolverine at the elevator. "There's been a – uhm, an incident."

Wolverine took a moment to register Rachel's expression; it was drawn in concern. "What. _Happened_ ," he stated.

The elevator arrived and the doors whispered open. Both Wolverine and Rachel stepped inside. "They're all in quarantine," Rachel said. When Wolverine's expression turned into one of incredulity, she hurriedly continued: "It's really just a precaution. They're not sick or anything."

The elevator traveled downwards, releasing the pair at the lower floor. "Half the staff is in quarantine?" Wolverine erupted as the doors reopened.

"Joanna and I have been holding down the fort," Rachel told him as they disembarked. "It's been okay. But like I was saying – I couldn't reach you. Where did you go?"

Wolverine held a hand up, silencing Rachel. Her expression became irritated and she came to a dead halt, letting Wolverine continue down the hall on his own. "I'll just go on back to work, shall I?" she shouted after him. "Completely managing the school and all?"

"Tell Joanna not to eat in my office!" Wolverine shouted over his shoulder. "That's how we get ants!"

"Flonquing jerk," Rachel muttered and stormed back to the elevator.

Wolverine pushed into Hank's office. The huge blue-furred mutant turned, not looking particularly surprised to see Wolverine standing there. "I thought I detected your dulcet tones wafting down the corridor."

Wolverine glowered at Hank, his lack of amusement apparent.

"Has Rachel brought you up to speed on the situation?" Hank asked.

"Start talking," Wolverine said.

Hank sighed, his shoulders rising and falling in a show of forced patience. "I am afraid that during your sudden absence, several members of our staff as well as a handful of students were admitted into quarantine. It's a precautionary measure," Hank told him. "No one is exhibiting any signs of infection, but it was better to be safe than – ."

"Fewer, shorter words," Wolverine ordered.

Hank's expression was one of annoyance. He began to open his mouth to retort when someone stepped out from the adjacent room and into a clear plastic tent-covered area. She was clad head to toe in a white hospital uniform, with gloves, a mask covering her nose and mouth, and a blue hair net covering her head. As the door closed behind her, Cecelia pulled the mask down, exposing her full-lipped frown. She began stripping off the protective garments.

"Doctor Reyes?" Hank prompted.

"We need to prep him for surgery," Cece said. "I'll feel better once his temp comes down."

Wolverine looked from Cecelia back to Hank. "One of our students?"

Hank scratched his forehead with a clawed fingertip. "I suppose you could say he was under our temporary protective custody."

"It's Remy," Cecelia told Wolverine as she stepped free from the tent. "The younger version."

"What's the matter with him?" Wolverine asked, his volume increasing.

"Chronic meningitis," Cecelia said. "Is our tentative diagnosis. We won't be able to say for sure until we get the lab results from the lumbar puncture."

"God dammit," Wolverine muttered. "When did this happen?"

"Likely, he has been infected for some time," Hank said. "Though not knowing his medical history, I can't be certain. For now we're aggressively treating him with intravenous antibiotics."

"He might have been sick for weeks. Maybe months. Probably due to a past illness, maybe pneumonia," Cecelia said. "Something that severely inhibited his immune system."

"I knew bringing that kid here was a mistake," Wolverine said.

"Fortunately, his exposure to the rest of the student body was limited," Hank added. "And the staff has been immunized."

"What students?" Wolverine asked, a sinking sensation of dread filled his gut.

Hank looked a little nervous. "Those four," he said and pointed with his thumb to the window behind him.

Wolverine strode forward to see four of the original five X-Men inside the infirmary. They seemed none the worse for wear. Instead of looking like patients or prisoners, the four boys were playing with a Nerf basketball. Bobby was attempting to dunk over Scott, who easily knocked the ball away from the hoop just by raising a hand. Clearly, they were enjoying not having to save the planet for the moment.

"Great. Fantastic," Wolverine growled and turned away from the window. He began striding towards the isolation room.

"Logan –," Hank began.

"You can't go in there," Cecelia interrupted as Wolverine stepped past her. She put out a hand to grab his arm, but he easily shrugged her off.

Wolverine cast the flaps to the tent open and pushed through the swinging door. The room beyond was dim, a soft light shown on single occupied hospital bed. Wolverine walked forward to hover over the figure who was draped in a white sheet. He looked down at the boy, looking for a sign that this was some kind of dupe. Gambit could play at being weak and vulnerable, stupid or vapid. He used these tactics to his advantage, something Wolverine didn't consider to be particularly heroic but cowardly. The problem was, there were times when it was difficult to know when Gambit was just acting, or being legitimately stupid. Looking down at the child-version of his teammate, Wolverine could see, and smell, that the illness was very real. The boy looked ghastly pale under the red blotchy flush of fever. His eyes were closed, his eyelids looked dark and bruised. A tube lead into his nose, there was a piece of surgical tape on his cheek to hold it in place. An IV drip was in his narrow arm. Both of his wrists were fastened to the bed rails with restraints. Medical equipment softly hummed, charting the patient's heartbeat and respiration. Wolverine rubbed a hand over his head, fingers digging into his coarse hair. He suddenly had a terrible headache.

~ oOo ~

In those first few weeks, Wolverine didn't know what to make of Gambit joining the staff of The Jean Grey School. Wolverine thought the thief likely wanted off Utopia and was looking for any escape route. Or maybe the idea of working alongside Magneto put him off. Wolverine was under no impression that Gambit had left Utopia for their shared camaraderie, nor did he get any sense that Gambit harbored animosity towards Cyclops. Gambit wasn't interested in teaching youngsters. He wasn't interested in being a soldier. He wasn't a freedom fighter. He wasn't following Xavier's dream. He wasn't loyal to any cause...unless it suited his agenda. Wolverine had no idea what Gambit's agenda was now, and as the weeks went by, he came to realize Gambit didn't know either.

Wolverine thought his aimlessness likely to do with Rogue, Gambit's main motivating factor, being out of the picture. He thought Gambit could use a straight talking to, to get it through his thick Cajun skull that he needed to get over it and move on. That the woman was never going to love him the way that he loved her. And it was pathetic and desperate the way he jumped at any scrap of attention she'd care to give him, and settle for her friendship just to be near her. Wolverine briefly thought about saying these things to him. But then Logan imagined Remy's slow, ironic grin spreading across his face; the mocking gleam in his eye. Perhaps followed by a very casual gesture to the school name stretched across the front of Logan's tee-shirt, right over his heart. Pot, meet kettle. Gambit wouldn't have to say anything so directly, he never did.

"It's a good thing nothin' happened t'Hope," Gambit had told him as he poured a measure of bourbon into a highball glass. Wolverine was seated at the counter in Gambit's kitchen, eyeballing the apartment's spartan furnishings. It had been a week since Hope and the Scarlet Witch had undone the No-More-Mutants spell and dispersed the Phoenix Force across the globe. It had been a day since Xavier's funeral. Wolverine had taken a chance that the thief would be in, without company, and in a hospitable mood. There was also the promise of a stocked liquor cabinet.

Wolverine grunted a response.

Gambit moved the glass across the countertop towards Wolverine. "I'd hate t'think of her gettin' killed," Gambit continued. "What with all the sacrifices people made just t'keep her alive."

Wolverine moved to take the glass, but Gambit held the drink firmly for a beat or two before relinquishing it. Wolverine looked up at his host. "I'd have a hard time makin' peace wit' whoever would hurt her." Gambit's smile was vague and did not reach his eyes. He was being uncharacteristically forthcoming.

So Gambit was pissed with him, Wolverine realized. It wasn't as if the situation hadn't been reversed, with Wolverine being pissed at Gambit for some stupid thing he'd done. But unlike Gambit, Wolverine took no small pleasure in bluntly informing his occasional-comrade, sometimes-drinking buddy, and intermittent-adversary that he was a fuck-up. Wolverine felt he owed it to Gambit as a matter of course with the goal towards Gambit's self-improvement. Gambit would get a very pointed warning, at the very least. Which was a lot more than most people got before Wolverine went and kicked some ass.

But Gambit was backwards, and would rather deliver a message by creeping around from behind and sneaking in a barbed comment. Or in this case, a threat. Wolverine had gone to confront Hope before the Phoenix had arrived, thinking that if the firebird planned on assuming control of the so-called mutant messiah, Wolverine would do the merciful thing and kill the girl first. Apparently, Gambit did not approve. Maybe he was sentimental. Maybe Gambit felt guilty about carrying that red-headed baby straight on into Sinister's lair, and the terrible risk he took by trusting Mystique. Maybe he was thinking of how that baby saved had Rogue's life.* Or maybe he just hated the idea of kids getting hurt.

Wolverine watched Gambit over the rim of the glass, taking a long draw of the liquid inside. He set the glass back onto the ring of condensation on the granite countertop.

"You should just pray don't ever have to make a call like that," Logan told him.

"I'll add it to my daily devotions," Gambit responded.

~ oOo ~

Logan looked down at the young patient. The boy's eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused. Remy mumbled something unintelligible. Logan might have made a crack that Gambit was barely coherent even at the best of times. Instead, he held his hand out over the boy's forehead, feeling the heat of fever radiate from his body. Logan turned as Hank and Cecelia entered the room, both of them clad in protective clothing.

"Logan –," Hank began as a warning.

"What happens if this kid dies?" Logan asked.

Cecelia gave a start, her breath catching in her throat.

"He's not going to die," Hank answered firmly.

"That kid is dying," Logan responded. "I can smell it."

"This is really not the place for this discussion!" Cecelia snapped, her voice high and tight.

Logan glanced back at the boy. Remy's eyelids were half-closed, his mouth slack. "He's out of it," Logan replied and looked back to Hank. "Why do you have him tied up?"

"He had a seizure," Hank said tiredly. "And he's delirious. We didn't want him to hurt himself. So we restrained him."

"Take them off," Logan told him. "If he comes to, you'll only freak him out."

Cecelia hesitated and glanced at Hank before starting towards the bed. She unclasped the restraint from one of Remy's wrists, the one without the IV. She continued to hold his hand in both of her own. "This is my fault. I should have examined him more thoroughly. I should have seen the symptoms..."

"Cece, Remy isn't the most cooperative patient," Hank told her. "Don't blame yourself. To be perfectly honest, I believed his symptoms were nothing more than a reaction to the inoculation."

"So you were both wrong," Logan said. "Now what?"

"We have to perform minor surgery," Cecelia said. "To drain the space behind his infected ear. We have to hope the antibiotics start to work."

"My concern is that he may have another seizure. The infection causes an inflammation of the membranes surrounding the brain and spinal cord. If it progresses, we're looking at a number of severe complications – tinnitus, memory loss, epilepsy, possible brain damage...," Hank said.

"And death," Logan said.

"Yes, death," Hank agreed.

Logan stared into the Hank's eyes, the only part of him visible through the protective clothing. Cecelia stood behind Logan, adjusting Remy's pillows to prop him upright. "If this Remy LeBeau dies, what happens? What happens to the – space-time continuum, or whatever?"

"I have a few hypotheses," Hank began slowly.

"So hypothesize all ready," Logan said.

"One is that an alternate reality or parallel universe could be created, diverging from the event of young Remy's – ah, unexpected death. Much like the Apocalyptic reality that was created when Xavier was killed. We would continue to exist as we are, but another reality where Remy never lived to see adulthood would be created."

"Could _our_ timeline change?" Logan said.

"That is another possibility," Hank said. "If this is our Remy LeBeau, the one we know to become Gambit, then his dying would result in a paradox, which would cause changes to our reality."

"What would that entail?" Logan asked.

"I could only speculate," Hank replied. "Storm's abduction by the Shadow King? Rogue's death? Hope Summers as Sinister's protégé?"

"Oh, is that all?" Logan groused.

"There is another possibility...but I don't know how much stock I would put in this postulation –."

"What? What is it?" Logan asked, fearing the worst.

"It's possible that everything occurring at present is meant to occur. That our timeline is, shall we say, set in stone. That young Remy being with us now...was preordained. It's the self-consistency principle."

"That would be good news, wouldn't it?" Cecelia asked, turning towards the two men. "Then we could know that Remy will be okay. That he will get better, and we can get him home to his family."

"If you consider _fate_ a good thing, perhaps," Hank said in a manner that conveyed he felt the opposite. "If the future has been written, then we forgo free will, and instead follow our predetermined course."

"So what you're saying is that since this hypothesis is contrary to your personal beliefs, it can't be true," Cecelia said. "You won't even entertain it as a possibility."

"If we were to believe in self-continuity, then we are only fulfilling our roles in history instead of creating it," Hank told her. "We would not be masters of our own destiny, but slaves to it."

"It could be that someone has a plan," Cecelia responded. "A plan for us."

"It is the upmost of human egocentrism for one to believe that there is some sort of godlike entity plotting out each and every one of our lives," Hank said.

Cecelia fixed him with a withering stare. "I'm not interested in debating faith with you again, Hank."

"I don't understand how a woman of your intelligence could logically –," Hank began.

"Can it, McCoy," Logan interrupted. "Your personal feelings aside, why don't you think we could be looking at this self-consistency thing."

"If everything a time traveller does has been part of history all along, then there is nothing he or she can do to _change_ the past or future in any way. Doing so would create a paradox, which in this hypothesis is impossible. Any effort to change history would result in probability bending to prevent any paradoxes from occurring," Hank explained. "As we approach a paradoxical event, the universe would compensate with more and more _coincidental_ instances. A distortion of probability would ensure that what is happening is what was meant to happen. If one cannot change history, outcomes would become stranger and more _improbable_ in order to prevent the _impossible_."

"If Remy's death would create a paradox, we would see reality warp, so it couldn't happen?" Cece asked.

"Nothing that would be unfeasible, just extremely unlikely," Hank responded. "Such as amazing coincidences, serendipitous instances, highly unlikely odds that would turn unexpectedly in your favor."

"So maybe we should buy a lotto ticket," Logan suggested. "I'm not buying this self-consistency crap either. Do whatever it takes to keep this kid alive."

Cecelia nodded. "Logan, before Remy lost consciousness, he asked for his father. Ororo has tried his phone number several times."

"He's not answering?" Logan asked.

"Ororo doesn't seem to think Jean-Luc would respond," Hank added. "She does not have a very high opinion of the Guild."

"Maybe he just doesn't have a cellphone," Logan said practically.

"Do you think you can try him again?" Cecelia asked. "Maybe you'll have better luck."

Logan nodded and as he turned to leave, Hank reminded him that he needed to change and sanitize _everything_. Logan's healing factor would prevent him from getting infected, but until they understood the cause of Remy's illness, they couldn't risk spreading any bacteria or viruses. Logan returned to his office, a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it in his hand. Rachel and Joanna had made themselves scarce, leaving only the faint scent of brown mustard behind. Logan sat at his desk and moved to pick up the receiver. As he placed his hand upon it, it rang.

Feeling a bit perplexed and surprised, he lifted the receiver and held it to his ear. "Hello?" he asked.

"Logan, it's me," Rogue said quickly.

Logan felt his shoulders tighten and he gripped the phone, causing the plastic casing to creak. "I got nothin' to say to you," he growled.

"Wait, Logan, don't hang up," she continued, her voice was a little breathless. "It's important."

"What is it? What do you want?" he demanded.

Rogue hesitated.

"I'm hanging up," he told her.

"No...Logan. Ah – Ah wanted t'say Ah'm sorry," she admitted. "Ah'm sorry. Ah didn't mean what Ah said. Ah was just angry."

Logan paused, uncertain of how to respond.

"Ah know you were upset," she continued. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

Her apology was unexpected. Logan felt perhaps a little uncomfortable with the idea of asking for and receiving forgiveness. Most of his previous disputes had ended either in slashing claws or a grunted understanding that they would never again speak of the moment.

He mumbled something into the receiver.

"Ah'll take that as a 'yes,'" Rogue said. "Ah know you miss Jean... and – and Kurt." Her voice wavered a bit. Logan could hear her swallow the tightness in her throat.

"Yeah," Logan agreed.

"We've lost so many friends...Ah wanted to make an effort not to lose the friends Ah got left."

"That why you called?" he asked.

"No," she began. "Ah wanted to say that in person, but Ah couldn't wait. Ah had t'tell you – ."

"I'm done with this touchy-feely stuff," he interrupted.

Rogue let out an exasperated breath. "Ah had to tell you," she continued more forcefully, "about what Ah found."

"What?"

There was a rustling sound as Rogue readjusted the phone against her ear. He could hear a clacking of computer keys. "Maybe it'd be best if Ah showed you. You near a computer?" she asked.

Logan nudged the laptop on his desk suspiciously. He clicked the lid open. "Yeah?"

"Ah'm sendin' you a file," she said. "Check the FTP."

"The what now?"

"Logan, go to your favorites...Kitty made you a link, don't ya remember? Your. Favorites."

Logan squinted at the screen. "There's nothing on here that I would be in favor of," he informed her.

"Oh for god's sake!" Rogue snapped. "There's a star – a yellow star! It says ' _favorites_ ' under it."

"I don't see any – oh yeah, here we go."

He could hear Rogue grinding her teeth. "You see where it says 'FTP'..."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it now."

"Click on that and open it up in the Explorer window."

Logan stared at the monitor in consternation.

"Logan? Do you see the window...?"

"Hm..."

"Logan!"

Logan attempted to execute a basic computer function. "I see a little picture of...a movie or something, I guess."

"Double click on it."

Logan moved his finger ponderously across the laptop's mouse pad.

"Are you clicking?"

"How do you click?"

"You tap twice!"

"Hunh, okay." Logan paused as a viewer opened up on the screen. Camera footage began to play. "There's no sound," he told her.

"No, it's security footage," Rogue told him.

"What'm I supposed to be seeing?" he asked. He saw an overhead view of a lobby area. A security guard was seated at a desk at the top of the screen.

"It's the lobby of Gambit's apartment building," Rogue said, her voice hushed.

After a few moments, two people emerged from a revolving door at the base of the screen. Logan could see the tops of their heads from behind as the pair moved towards the desk. As he watched, the two figures turned to look about the lobby. Logan's heart contracted. One of the figures, her hair long and ragged, glanced over her shoulder. Though the footage was in black and white, Logan knew that her hair would be red. Her face was smeared with soot and her long gown was torn and dirty. Her eyes were large and frightened in her pale face. The security guard seemed to think nothing was amiss. He spoke to the taller figure, a man. The man was also dirt-smeared and bare-footed. He nodded at the security guard and pointed skyward. Both figures were dressed in late-Victorian period garb. The man turned to look at the woman. Logan saw it was the Gambit-clone. The clone smiled at the woman in a reassuring way. She took his hand, and together the pair walked towards the elevators to disappear from view.

"She must've used her powers to disguise their appearance from the guard," Rogue said. Logan startled, forgetting she was still on the phone. When he had seen the woman, the world around him had gone completely silent.

"Where –," Logan began.

"Wait, there's more," Rogue told him.

The camera cut away to another view, this one of a parking garage. A figure disembarked from the elevator car followed closely by another man and the woman.

"That's Murdock!" Logan exclaimed. "What the –!"

"They're gettin' in that SUV," Rogue said. The driver gestured aggressively at Daredevil, his irritation apparent. The two men seemed to argue for a moment. Then the driver opened the side door and climbed behind the steering wheel. Daredevil opened the front passenger door and bade the woman to enter, then he too climbed into the vehicle. With the doors closed, the driver backed the SUV out from the parking space. As the vehicle passed beneath the security cameras, the passengers' faces appeared clearly on the screen. The footage froze.

"That's not the Gambit-clone," Rogue said. "That's the real deal."

"And the woman?" Logan asked, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

"That's Jean. It has'ta be," Rogue answered. "She's alive. And she's with Gambit."

* * *

*All this happened in the Messiah Complex.

Next time: Gambit's ongoing Daddy Issues.


	36. Road to Hell

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

Gambit smoked a cigarette. He told himself it wasn't technically cheating because it was Sunday, and Sundays didn't count in the forty days of Lent. Gambit often gave himself a lot of excuses for the sins he committed. It wasn't _technically_ his fault that the Morlocks were killed, because he didn't know what Sinister's ultimate plan was, and he _technically_ didn't have a choice in the matter. He _technically_ never cheated on Rogue because at the time, neither one of them had spoken the word "commitment" aloud. He _technically_ never betrayed the X-Men because he never lied about his past, he just never came forward with the information. Gambit was pretty sure that when he stood before Saint Peter at the pearly gates, he wasn't going to get off on a technicality.

Gambit had lit the cigarette with a small charge from his forefinger and drew the blessed concoction of chemicals, smoke, and nicotine into his lungs. He felt the tension in his neck and shoulders loosen as he exhaled a plume of smoke into the March air. Gambit was leaning up against the brick wall outside the doughnut shop. He'd stopped by on the way back to the apartment with the vague hopes that Dickie might have a job for him... _any_ job. He'd rescue some kittens from a tree. He'd steal candy from a baby. Anything to stay out of the apartment. Gambit wasn't avoiding Jean. He wasn't. He just needed some space is all. And Jean didn't seem to have any concept of personal boundaries. She wanted to share everything: living quarters, food, every thought that passed through her mind...

Gambit thought the cigarette a small concession considering he had passed up a chance to have sex with one of the most beautiful women he had ever encountered. All the X-Women were beautiful, naturally. They were in peak physical condition at the prime of their lives. He would be lying if he said he wasn't attracted to any one of them. Jean was undeniably beautiful in an effortless way. With her conservative clothing, her precise hairstyle, and her fastidious manner, her beauty shown through in the way she carried herself, naturally, not overtly. In short, she wasn't the type of woman he was attracted to. And Gambit wasn't attracted to Jean. He wasn't. What had happened between them was a mistake. Gambit thought he must have lead her on in some way, taken his flirtation as an overture to something more.

He found himself observing Jean carefully for any flaws, to prove to himself that there was no attraction. She was a little overbearing, she liked things to be just so. She liked to follow a controlled plan. She was tidy and anal. She couldn't cook (deal-breaker). Most of all, her open earnestness was anathema to him. Gambit thought that sex would have been less intimate than the late-night conversations they shared. But he was _not_ going to think about intimacy with Jean, or of Jean kissing him, or the press of Jean's body against his own. Instead he should imagine being incinerated by one of Cyclops' optic blasts while being simultaneously eviscerated by Wolverine. He should not be thinking about unfastening the pearl buttons on Jean's modest pink pajama set.

All of this, whatever was happening, could not be trusted. Gambit knew that when it came to women, he was a temporary solution to an unresolved problem. Soon enough, a better alternative would come along. Jean would come to her senses, and Gambit would stand on the sidelines and wave her goodbye. Jean's head was a mess, she was alone, and after all that she had gone through, Gambit was conscious of not being seen as taking advantage of a really unfortunate situation. She was clearly transferring her feelings, her fears and wants and loneliness, onto him. Gambit knew himself well enough to recognize that he suffered from a severe savior complex, particularly when it came to beautiful women in need.

With a glance at the muted yellow light shining through the clouds, Gambit realized the morning had faded into afternoon. He should probably go back to the apartment now. The cigarette had burned down to the filter. Gambit flicked the butt into a nearby dumpster and returned to the car. He drove a circuitous route to the safe-house, let himself in, climbed the two flights to the upstairs apartment, and opened the door.

Jean had broken into the safe.

Gambit took in the sight of Jean guiltily snatching her hand away from the safe as she turned. She was standing on the couch cushions before the wall safe. There was a pile of pink laundry around her feet and spilling onto the floor. Gambit closed the apartment door, feeling a growing sense of frustration building in his chest.

_Nosy!_ He thought. She was overbearing, controlling, anal, _and_ nosy! How could he forget nosy?

He asked her irritably: "What de heck you doin'?"

"I got the safe open." She smiled in a crafty sort of way, as if she was just so clever.

Gambit struggled to get a grip on his anger. He felt his jaw tighten. "I can see that," he said slowly through clenched teeth. "Did ya think t'disarm de alarm?"

"There's no alarm," Jean answered smartly, properly annunciating her 'r's.

"Uhm...yeah, dere is," Gambit said, his tone might have become a tad waspish.

"Well, I can't _hear_ anything," she told him, rolling her eyes skyward while pretending to listen for an alarm, her hand cupped to her ear.

That did it.

"On account of it bein' a _silent_ alarm!" Gambit shouted at her.

"Oh," Jean startled. Her shoulders rose and fell in a sad kind of shrug. "Uhm. Whoops?"

Gambit gripped fistfuls of his hair and let out a frustrated cry. Jean became contrite, expecting him to immediately concede to her America's Sweetheart appeal with her apologies. He could hear his own responses to her escalating in volume and exasperation. He hadn't been so aggravated...so _frustrated_ since – since...

Before he knew it he was gripping Jean's shoulders. He pulled her close and heard her gasp, saw a flash of surprise in her bright green eyes. He pressed a hard kiss against her mouth, expecting her to throw him across the room, or at the very least, slap him. She would realize what a mistake she was making. And then she would leave – him – _alone_! Instead her lips softened against his, her mouth became inviting, and her hand knotted in his hair and pulled him closer. Gambit observed that his plan was backfiring when he felt her tongue trace his lower lip. He felt the last of his resolve and denial weaken, and his arms went around her. They stood together, trading kisses the way they traded words; with her pushing for more and him pulling back, then rushing forward with more passion than he'd intended to give.

Gambit thought he heard alarm bells and he jolted, breaking the kiss. He realized it wasn't an alarm, but the ringing of a phone.

Gambit pulled back and looked at Jean's flushed face. "Don't answer it," she told him.

He shook off his stupor as he returned to the harsh sound of reality.

Gambit sighed. "I know for whom de bell tolls." He turned and made his way to the kitchen.

Gambit lifted the receiver of the cordless phone and spoke into it. "'Ello?" Gambit said reluctantly.

"Remy, my dear son," a voice spoke coolly. "Your father wishes to speak with you."

The voice was strangely distorted through the crackle of the phone. Gambit felt a stir of confusion. " _P_ _è_ _re_?" he inquired. Had his father managed to track him down? How did he know where he was? Did Richard go and _tell on him_?

The voice gave a short laugh. "Return to the shop, lad. At your earliest convenience. I advise that your earliest convenience be _immediately._ "

The phone call disconnected and Gambit was left listening to the faint crackle of static. He stared at the receiver for a moment, then replaced it in the cradle.

"What is it? Is it very bad?" Jean asked from the doorway.

"It was my father," he told her. He wandered past her through the hallway and back into the living room. He made his way towards the door. "I got t'go back into town."

"I could just explain – ," Jean said as she followed him.

"Dis ain't about de safe," Gambit interrupted and pulled open the door. He had a feeling his father had a few opinions about his son's after-hours work at NABC. Gambit didn't really want to compound his troubles. "And if I bring you along, I'm sure to get one of his lectures."

"What lecture is that?" Jean asked.

Gambit sighed and looked Jean over, seeing her as his father would. Jean-Luc would take one look at Jean and read the writing on the wall; one beautiful woman plus sad expression multiplied by Remy LeBeau equals a really big problem. He explained: "De one about me, and women, and how much trouble women always seem t'cause me on account of I can't help myself."

He closed the door behind him, leaving Jean behind.

Gambit returned to the shop plagued by a sensation of unease. There was something not right about the phone call and the strange cadence of his father's voice. He parked the car before the front window of the doughnut shop. The parking lot was dark, as was the shop itself. The 'open' sign was unlit. Gambit cut the ignition, staring into the darkened shopfront. Had Jean-Luc ordered the shop closed so he could lecture his son without chance of interruption? Gambit stepped from the car and started for the front door. He pulled open the door and found the shop to be seemingly empty. The interior was dark, but there was a light on in the back room behind the counter. Gambit could see the square window of light in the swinging door. He started towards the counter. Gambit felt his heel slip slightly on the linoleum tiles. He looked down to see a dark puddle spread across the floor. He paused, processing the dark puddle and where it had smeared, as if something had been dragged from this point towards the counter. With a sudden flash of adrenaline, he realized he was standing in a puddle of blood. Gambit inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing to the back room. A shadow had passed before the window. The door swung open slowly and a man stepped out to stand behind the counter. He was inhumanly tall, with long dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and was garbed in strange Victorian clothing.

"Cruller?" Sinister asked, proffering a doughnut in Gambit's direction.

Gambit felt himself freeze in place, his feet held fast to the floor as if they had rooted to the spot. It was nothing that Sinister had said or done that prevented Gambit from acting. Just a sick sensation of both fear and panic. His mouth went dry, his heart ratcheted in his chest, his airway constricted.

Sinister considered Gambit with an arrogant air, his head slightly cocked, a dark eyebrow raised. He raised a shoulder in a sort of nonchalant shrug and took a bite of the doughnut. He chewed thoughtfully, staring at the crescent shape he had bitten into the pastry. "Pastry is one of few things the French can be trusted with," he observed.

Gambit felt his jaw unhinge slightly. He thought to respond, but nothing came to mind. The sight before him was truly bizarre. He realized he was dealing with the crazy Sinister, the one the Phoenix Force had faced. The one that had created the clone army. It wasn't the female version, Claudine Renko, that Gambit had previously encountered with X-23. It wasn't the cruel, sadistic Sinister that Gambit had grown to know and loathe. This was something else entirely.

Gambit looked down at the swath of blood on the floor. It lead straight to the opening in the counter. In the dimness, Gambit could see a hand lying palm up on the floor, settled into the pool of blood. From where he stood, he could not see the rest of the body, as it was hidden behind the counter.

"Richard?" Gambit called, his voice tentative at first. " _Richard!_ "

Sinister glanced down at the figure by his feet. "I'm afraid he is quite dead," Sinister told Gambit, as if he was remarking on the weather.

Gambit's jaw clenched. "God – _damn_ you, you monster!" he hissed, his hands going into fists.

Sinister made an airy gesture with the doughnut in hand. "Seems there _is_ honor amongst thieves after all. He was unwilling to relinquish the details of your location, right through to the bitter end."

"He was my _cousin!_ " Gambit shouted.

Sinister considered the still form. "Clearly not a blood relation," he commented callously.

Gambit took a step towards Sinister. "You evil bastard."

"I went through a great deal of trouble to find you, young man. Multiple power signatures here and there...a wild goose chase, that. New York, Paris, Istanbul, Madripor – dreadful country. I have a feeling I know the party responsible for this little misdirection. Why can he not _stay_ dead, that little blighter," Sinister said as an aside before continuing on his soliloquy. "Fortunately, I was able to trace you here when I noticed the smallest of power fluctuations. Such a tiny little spark compared to the other energy surges, the diversions. Are you still smoking, LeBeau? Tut, tut. Such a filthy habit."

Gambit came to a stiff-legged halt. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

Sinister continued on: "Your cousin, such a recalcitrant fellow. He seemed to harbor quite a lot of animosity towards you, but was in no hurry to give you up. But, what luck! After he expired, I should happen to hear an alarm sound. An alert at one of the flea-ridden flats nearby and a telephone number, should Richard need to contact you. I thought to myself, why should _I_ come to _you_ , when it has always been for _you_ to answer to _me_?"

"You're dead wrong," Gambit said, his voice rough. "I _don't_ answer to you. You or anybody else." Suddenly, there was a handful of cards clenched in his fist, alive with explosive kinetic energy. The light danced on the walls and ceiling of the dimly lit shop.

"A flair for showmanship," Sinister observed with a sly smile. "Just like your father."

"You shut your mouth," Gambit snarled. He wasn't going to be diverted by one of Sinister's cryptic remarks. He pulled back his arm, preparing to release a volley of explosive cards in Sinister's direction.

"What have we here?" Sinister suddenly announced and ducked behind the counter. He emerged with a struggling teenage girl. She let out a shriek of fright. Gambit recognized the girl, the pregnant teen with the piercings who had been at the counter the first night.

"Another family member?" Sinister asked, seizing the girl so her back was pressed up to his chest. His arm wrapped around her to clutch his hand around her throat. She kicked her thin legs and clawed at his arm.

"Put her down!" Gambit demanded, a twinge of desperation in his voice.

"Mind your tone," Sinister said, his voice suddenly dropping several octaves to a dangerous, deadly level. "Now. Monsieur LeBeau. You are not the specimen I hoped to find. I sought my dear and devoted Poppet. Alas, I have discovered that someone has dispatched my little pet. No doubt, my predecessor was jealous and had him killed. And Poppet's lovely charge, my fifth and perhaps most perfect model, has been misplaced. I detected her not far from this location, but when I went to retrieve her, I found nothing but a disgusting hovel reeking of canine and human filth."

Gambit's thoughts spiraled. Sinister must have been referring to the dognapper's house. A chill ran through him knowing how close Jean had come to being recaptured by Sinister.

"Where is Five?" Sinister asked, his hand tightening purposefully around the girl's throat. The girl's cry choked off.

Gambit stared into Sinister's glowing red eyes. "I got no idea what you're talkin' about," he said firmly. "You lunatic. Put dat girl down _now_."

Sinister smiled cruelly. "Perhaps you are confused," he mused. "Allow me to clarify. I am looking for a young woman. Five foot, six inches. Weight, a bit under nine stone. Hair, red. Fair-skinned. You would certainly recognize her. She may answer to the name Madelyne."

"You're de one who's confused," Gambit replied, his eyes on the girl. Her light brown eyes pleaded with him to rescue her. "I think someone left you in your test tube too long."

Sinister seized one of the girl's wrists and slapped her hand down upon the countertop so her fingers curled over the ledge. He glanced meaningfully up at the partition, which had been raised to allow him access to behind the counter. The girl struggled in his grip, not comprehending what was about to happen next. Using his telekinesis, Sinister nudged the partition. The section dropped to smash down upon the girl's fingers.

"No!" Gambit shouted just as the girl shrieked in pain. His body jolted at the horrible sound.

Sinister's hand pressed down upon the counter partition, pinning the girl's fingers. Gambit could hear the crack of bone.

"Broken," Sinister said with mock sadness. "What's a thief to do without fingers?"

"Stop it! For God's sakes! Stop!" Gambit shouted and started forward.

"Not another step," Sinister commanded as he pulled the girl off her feet by her throat. Gambit froze. "I will ask one more time, LeBeau. Where. Is. Five?" Sinister punctuated his final word by pressing harder on the girl's hand. She let out a strangled scream.

"I tell you, I don't know!" Gambit answered. "I don't know where Madelyne is. I haven't seen your brain-dead clone! And as far as I'm concerned, dis is a Scott Summers problem, not mine! Check wit' him!"

Sinister considered him for a moment, his lips pursed. He suddenly lifted the section of countertop and the girl's fingers were freed. She could not catch her breath for her sobbing. "Your words have a ring of truth to them," Sinister said.

"Let her down," Gambit said, struggling for calm. "Can't you see she's pregnant?"

Sinister lowered his arm to set the girl back on her feet, her body still pinned to his, her face cradled in his hand. Sinister reached out his other hand and lifted the girl's oversized shirt. "Well, so she is. Congratulations, my dear. Perhaps your life is not a complete waste. You at least have some potential, if only to serve as a vessel for the next generation."

"There ain't nothing for you here, Essex," Gambit told him. "Let her go."

"I've always delighted in the sight of a woman with child. There is something so – delectable – in her appearance, don't you think?" Sinister asked as he turned his face into the girl's hair. His hand ran over the swell of her belly. "I could just eat you up."

Clutching her injured hand to her chest, the girl dropped from under Sinister's arm and pulled away. Her expression was one of terror and revulsion. Gambit relaxed minutely as the girl shrank back from Sinister. But then suddenly, Sinister turned and was upon him. The cards Gambit held in his grip flared to ash to fall from his fingertips to the floor. Sinister held him by the front of his jacket and Gambit found himself propelled backwards into the coffee station. Carafes of hot coffee, packets of sugar, and a pitcher of creamer toppled and struck the floor.

"Now, to deal with _you_ ," Sinister said.

Gambit found himself unable to summon his powers. There was a terrible pressure inside his skull. One of his hands struggled to free himself from the unyielding grip on his coat while the other clawed at Sinister's face. Sinister grabbed a fistful of Gambit's hair and forced his head back. Even as Gambit struggled to push Sinister away, the bigger man loomed over him.

"You find yourself without your mutant abilities," Sinister told him and Gambit could feel his breath on his face. "A precautionary measure put in place by my predecessor. He is loathe to lose control of you again, you see. If it had been _my_ decision to make, I would have simply killed you. Unlike my forefather, I am not compelled to keep you alive. I lack his sentiment. I simply find you a useless nuisance."

Gambit reached out and seized one of the fallen coffee carafes. He swung it to strike Sinister on the side of the head. The heavy metal canister rang with the sound of impact. Sinister's head turned slightly, revealing a dent in the side of his skull. As Gambit watched, a squirming mass of flesh-like tentacles moved to repair the damage. Sinister's face slipped into a mask of fury. Gambit was suddenly pulled forward. A backhanded slap sent him to his knees. If not for the grip on his jacket he would have been sprawled across the floor.

"A little careful editing left you without your uncontrollable fits of explosive activity, while also robbing you of the full extent of your abilities...the manipulation of energy at a subatomic level. Some flaw, some illness," Sinister said and tapped Gambit on the head with his forefinger at the exact spot that Sinister had once placed an incision, "prevented you from controlling your powers. You are defective. But my predecessor did not go far enough. Perhaps if I were to sever some connections here...and here." Sinister mused as his forefinger drew a line across the top of Gambit's head.

Gambit jerked away. He aimed a kick at Sinister's kneecap. Sinister sent a jolt of energy through Gambit's arm, causing his body to seize and spasm. Gambit gasped for air.

"Perhaps another incision or five...and I could recreate what I have lost. I do miss my Poppet dearly. He was so eager to please, so _affectionate_ –."

"You – sick – deranged –," Gambit choked out.

Sinister hauled Gambit to his feet so that they were eye level. "On second thought, perhaps I should send you to meet your maker," Sinister told him, his face mere inches away from Gambit's own.

"What –?" Gambit started.

Sinister smiled cruelly. "Do you know... Sinister – that is, my previous incarnation – withheld certain information from you? He had always hoped that you would seek him out for answers, to be the guiding light in your young and ill-considered life. I would prefer you to instead plunge head-first off the roof of the nearest and tallest building."

From over Sinister's shoulder, Gambit caught a glimpse of movement behind the shop counter. Not wanting to attract Sinister's attention to the movement, Gambit quickly looked away. "De feeling is mutual," Gambit told Sinister.

"Such cheek," Sinister said and softly slapped the side of Gambit's face. "He hoped to hold power over you with this information. He hoped to make you realize... that he is _all_ you ever had and all you could ever hope for. I, on the other hand, hope this information destroys you."

Gambit pulled fitfully against Sinister's grip, his feet slipping in the spilled coffee and milk.

"Now LeBeau, do be still. I am attempting to educate you."

Gambit lashed out a fist. Sinister caught it and twisted Gambit's arm behind his back, thrusting him forward and away so that Gambit now lay face-down on the coffee station. Sinister pressed himself over Gambit's prone form to speak into his ear.

"No one else would have you," Sinister told him quietly. "Your own parents signed you away. Not in exchange for money or power. Oh, no. They _paid_ for the privilege to be rid of you. They donated you to a scientific cause to be experimented upon, hoping that something – anything – good might come of your worthless life. Such a pair of misguided fools."

Gambit shot his arm back, sinking his elbow into Sinister's ribs. It seemed not to phase the mutate in the least. Instead, Sinister pressed his hand down upon Gambit's head, holding him down against the counter.

"The idea has come to mind that I should repay my predecessor in kind for the setbacks he has caused me. After all, he sent the younger version forward to destroy _my_ works – so shall I send the elder back," Sinister continued.

"Augh!" Gambit cried, the pain in his head now compounded tenfold. "You're insane!"

"Insanity? ' _Insanity is doing the same thing_ , over and over again, but expecting different results.'" Sinister quoted. "Such as assisting _you_ , LeBeau. When time and again, you repay us with betrayal. In a short matter of time, you will no longer be of consequence to me, or anyone else for that matter. Know that even now, your young counterpart is being held by your compeers at their estate."

"What?" Gambit said, suddenly going still.

"A time-lost lad, taken from the past. Kidnapped and held prisoner by those you would call friends. Likely they will see this as an opportunity. An opportunity to change the horrible events you helped perpetrate," Sinister told him.

"You – lie!" Gambit cried. Would the X-Men have done such a thing? Taken his young self from the past, as they had the original five X-Men?

"I have not once lied, or omitted any fact since you walked through that door, LeBeau," Sinister informed him. "Do you think your leader, Wolverine, would hesitate to kill you to prevent his true friends from being harmed?"

Gambit felt a chill of dread in his gut.

"Hey, you psycho limey freak!" shouted a voice from the rear of the shop.

Sinister paused and turned. Gambit could see the girl standing behind the counter, a gun in her left hand, the grip balanced precariously in her damaged right.

"Go to Hell, you British bastard!" the girl cried and pulled the trigger.

Gambit heard the crack of gunfire followed by a blinding flash of white light. The agony inside his head suddenly exploded and he felt as if his skull had burst. The next instant he found himself falling through open space. Gambit reopened his eyes to see intense brightness, a swirling sea of red below him, and feel a terrible heat rising up to meet him.

_My God,_ he thought seconds before meeting the surface of fiery red, _I've been sent to Hell._

* * *

**Next time** : Jean finds the rabbit hole.


	37. Witness Protection

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

Jean stood from the office chair, her arms stiff to her sides, her hands clenched into fists. She was furious, and unlike the time she spent as Number Five enduring imprisonment under Sinister, she was able to channel her anger into action. The lackadaisical calm of her dead sister Three could not mute her rage, the spitefulness of sister Two only sharpened it. And the domineering nature of One wanted to assume complete control over the situation.

Below stairs, Jean could hear the woman moving about her home. The woman was now in her kitchen, opening a cupboard, then the refrigerator. How dare the woman go about her life as if she hadn't robbed Poppet of his? Jean walked towards the landing to look down the staircase. She moved to the far side of the loft, towards the rear of the house and the back window which overlooked a shared courtyard. Jean would wait here for the woman to rise up from the staircase and then confront her with her misdeeds. She would watch Helen's expression to confirm her guilt. Then Jean would shatter her mind.

There was a clicking of a dog's nails on the floor, the gentle jingle of the tags on its collar. Jean heard the dog's tread upon the wooden risers. It was coming upstairs. Jean looked around and spied a dog bed under the back window. Beyond the window was a small landing for a fire escape. Jean happened to glance up and across the courtyard to the house there. There was a window just like the one she was standing in front of, as well as a matching fire escape. A boy was sitting in the open window, the pale window curtains falling around him like a gauzy cape. He was watching her. The boy waved.

Jean was startled by a small surprised bark. She turned to see the small peachy-colored poodle standing in the room looking at her. It barked again, startled at her intrusion. Jean let out a shaky breath and put her hands over her face.

_What am I doing?_ she thought. She couldn't kill someone, a total stranger. The woman must be mentally ill. Jean would have to see that she sought help, perhaps by giving her a mental suggestion. Maybe the woman would turn herself in for what she had done. Jean felt herself moved to tears. How could she have thought to commit such a crime?

"Stay where you are," said a voice.

Jean pulled her hands away from her face to look up into the barrel of a gun. The woman, Helen, was standing at the top of the staircase, leveling a gun in Jean's direction. Jean took in the woman's appearance. Helen was slender, perhaps a little too thin. Her brown hair was still neatly pinned at the back of her head. Her eyes were hazel and full of hot menace. Jean had thought her attractive from a distance. She was, but now closer, Jean could see the lines around Helen's eyes and lips. A frown line creased her forehead.

"Who the hell are you?" Helen asked and after a brief considering pause she continued: "Another one of his sluts?"

Jean felt a thrill of shock go through her, spreading from her chest down to her fingers and toes.

"I – I'm not –," Jean began. "I wanted to talk –."

"I'm sure you did, _ch_ _è_ _rie_. Do you think you're de first girl t'come to my door? Tellin' me I'm not good enough for him? That you're de one he really loves?" Helen asked, holding the gun steady, trained at Jean's chest. "I was once in your shoes. I've heard it all before."

Jean's eyes narrowed as she felt the threatening anger return. This woman was insane, completely delusional!

"Let me tell you somethin', girlie," Helen snapped. "You aren't his one true love. There's at least a dozen more. And besides, I can tell from de looks of you – you aren't his type. You're too damn _old_."

"You –," Jean hissed out. "You killed him."

Helen seemed surprised for a moment. The color seemed to leech from her face. Her lips trembled before she pressed them together. She drew a shaking breath. With bravado, she spoke: "Yeah? You should be thankin' me. I did you a favor."

Jean took a step forward and the little dog rushed her, snatching at her ankles with its teeth. Jean swept it aside with her foot, causing it to yelp. Suddenly, Helen was striding towards her, the gun held purposefully.

"You bitch!" Helen said just as Jean threw herself forward.

Jean grasped the woman by the wrist and pushed the gun upwards as Helen continued towards her. The dog dashed underfoot, barking and biting. Jean felt herself trip on the dog and she fell against the other woman. There was a sudden loud pop and a gasp. Jean pushed away from Helen and stumbled backwards.

Helen too took a few shaking steps, her body canting to the side. She put a hand to her ribcage. A blossom of wet red had appeared on her blouse. Helen looked at the blood on her hand with shock. Jean looked down at herself. There was a spray of blood on her jacket. It was not her own.

Jean looked up at Helen, who was holding her side and gasping. There was a thud as the gun hit the floorboards. The little dog was running around, barking at Jean ferociously. Jean hastily backed up several steps. Helen sank to her knees, a look of agony on her face. Jean found herself shaking her head from side to side, as if to deny the reality of the situation. Jean felt a rush of overwhelming emotion, fear and panic and shame. She was torn between falling towards the woman to help her or fleeing. Jean put a hand to her mouth as she gasped. She turned to look about helplessly for some solution. She cast her gaze out the window. Across the courtyard, she should see the rustle of curtains as the small figure of the boy disappeared from the window.

"Oh, no...," Jean moaned into her hand.

Jean turned back to Helen who was on her knees clutching her stomach. The dog worried about her, whining pitifully. Just then, the window at the front of the room was forced open. The pair of French doors flew inward. A cloaked shape appeared in the window, a silhouette against the twilight.

"What the hell?" the cloaked figure said, stupefied for a moment.

Jean could barely get a register on the newcomer's sudden appearance before she found herself the target of a flying dagger. Jean threw up a telekinetic shield and caught the projectile the instant before it would have pierced her heart. The stiletto blade hit the floor with a clatter as Jean fell backwards to hit the wall. With a startled cry, she ducked the second thrown blade as it struck the wall beside her head. Jean threw open the back window with her telekinesis and leapt through the opening. She fell in an undignified heap on the metal fire escape landing. Jean gripped the railing and pulled herself to her feet, then leapt over the banister into open space.

With her telekinesis, she guided herself to the courtyard bellow. Jean risked a glance upwards to see the dark figure appear at the window. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Jean started off at a run towards the alley between two of the row houses. Using her telepathy, she shielded herself from view. Jean darted down the alley and turned out onto the sidewalk. She found herself on the next block over. She was out of breath from fear. Jean looked right and then left. The street was empty. She hastily turned and looked up at the row house she now stood beside, the twin to the home she had just fled. She could see the windows on the second floor were lit. Her mind was fearful of the attacker; the person who had thrown the blades was likely the assassin who had killed Poppet. But Jean was also conscious of what the young boy had witnessed from his window. What had he seen? Would he report what had transpired? Worse, would the terrible memory follow him for the rest of his life?

Jean started towards the door, realizing now that the lower portion of the row house was the newsstand she had passed earlier. The shop was unlit and the sign in the door read: _Yes! We're Closed!_ Jean forced her way inside and quickly closed the door behind her. She prayed the door was not protected by another silent alarm. Jean turned. The shop was dark and silent. She cautiously started forward, keeping her tread light. She hoped there was a door leading upwards to the next floor, which must be an apartment. As she approached the counter, she heard a rustling noise followed by a knocking sound. Jean froze to listen. She glanced behind her, looking for the assassin. But Jean was alone. She heard the sound again. It was coming from the back room. Jean slunk behind the counter and into a kind of workshop. There were pieces of mechanics, scraps of paper written over in scribbles, and unidentifiable bits and bobs lying on every available surface. A calendar, several years old, was hung on the wall. Jean heard the rustling noise continue. She spied a door at the back of the shop.

Once at the door, she pressed her ear to the wood. The rustling noise was frenetic, and came in short bursts of activity. She wondered what it could be. Jean tried the doorknob and found the door unlocked. She cautiously pulled open the door. Jean stood at the base of a narrow wooden staircase. Halfway up the staircase was a window, a yellow shade had been drawn over it. On one of the steps was a small reddish bird, a house finch. When it saw her, it took flight to flap against the shaded window. The bird was causing the rustling noise. Jean took a few steps and the bird became frightened. She paused, and with her telekinesis, raised the shade and then the window. Then she gently guided the bird to freedom.

Jean took the rest of the stairs to the window just in time to see the bird fly into the sky. Jean startled. The sky beyond the window was bright with daylight. But that was impossible! It was nightfall just a moment ago! The bird flew off into a bright blue sky, chirping several times. Jean found herself looking out the window down into an alleyway. A gray cat was prowling in the trash. The building next door appeared to be a small grocery. A shopkeeper was hosing off her front walk. Jean drew away from the window experiencing a strange sensation of vertigo. She seemingly had transported to another place and another time.

_What in the world?_ she thought. From above came the muffled sounds of footsteps. She heard someone speaking. There was laughter. Jean cautiously started up the steps to the door at the top of the staircase. She hesitated, then put her hand to the doorknob. The brass doorknob felt warm in her hand. She turned it and the door opened.

Jean stared into hot white nothingness. With a gasp, she pulled the door shut. Jean turned and hurried back down the steps, her heart beating arrhythmically. She had passed the window by the time her footsteps slowed. Jean came to a halt before reaching the base of the staircase. She heard the upstairs door reopen. Jean slowly turned towards the sound, fearing what she might see. There was a child at the top of the steps, peering at her through the small crack between the door and the doorframe. When he spotted her he gasped and closed the door. Jean started back up the stairs, her feet feeling leaden. Once at the top, she looked down at her coat. She saw it was spattered with blood. Jean unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the end of the hand rail. She looked at the innocuous-looking door. Either there was a boy behind the door or...

_This is it_ , Jean thought. _This is me finally losing my mind. I've gone insane._

She put her hand to the doorknob once more and turned it. Slowly it opened. Jean found herself looking into a hallway. To her right was an opening to a common room, a living room. To her left were a pair of closed doors. Towards the rear was another open entry leading to a kitchen. At the very end of the hall was another closed door. Jean stepped into the hall. A narrow area rug ran the length of the hall, muffling her footsteps. Jean turned and peered into the living room. The bay window had a small window seat before it, laden with decorative pillows. The window was partially shaded, but it appeared to be night once more. Beyond the window, it seemed there was another cityscape. It appeared she was now in New York City. She began looking around the room for more strangeness, but it all seemed very ordinary. There were tastefully simple furnishings, a couch and love seat and club chair surrounding a low coffee table. The walls were painted a warm white and there was an assortment of paintings hung all around the room; everything from Impressionist works to Abstract Expressionism. Jean stepped into the room. There was a _Scrabble_ game set up on the table for three players. Jean turned her head to read the words that had been spelled out on the board. The word closest to her was "axent" which wasn't a word at all.

"Dad's losing pretty bad," said a voice.

Jean yelped in fright and spun, throwing out a hand as she did. A telekinetic bolt sent the speaker falling backwards. He hit the hallway floor, a gasp of air leaving his body.

"Oh, my gosh!" Jean said, seeing too late that it was the little boy.

The boy looked startled for a moment, then burst into tears. He let out a wailing: " _Oww!_ "

"I'm so sorry!" Jean said and dashed forward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. You scared me. Are you alright?"

The little boy was rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. Jean saw that his hair was very fair, a bright red-blond and it was longish. His skin was very pale. The boy sucked in a few tearful gasps and looked up at her. With surprise, Jean saw that his eyes were red. Not dark red, as Remy's were, but the irises were a bright red that flashed, like an animal's eyes caught by a beam of light in the night. He squinted at her, his cheeks blotchy from tears.

"I'm sorry," she told him again. She reached out to put a hand to his shoulder, but thought better of it. She didn't want to scare him any more than she all ready had. He might have been four or five years old. Jean looked up and down the hall.

"Are you here by yourself?" she asked.

"No," he told her. "You're here."

"No, I mean – isn't there anyone else with you?" Jean asked.

The boy wiped his cheek with his hand and sniffed. "Granddad," he replied. "He's supposed t'come. He's supposed t'read me a story."

Jean wondered where the boy's grandfather was. She glanced at the other closed doors, then back the way she came. There was no sign of another adult.

"Are you hurt?" Jean asked, turning back to the child. "I pushed you pretty hard."

The boy pulled his legs under him and stood. He rubbed his bottom with both hands, his lower lip stuck out in a pout. "I'm okay. I'm not hurt," he said and after a moment, he brightened a bit. "I guess I scared you pretty good, hunh?"

"You did," Jean admitted. "I didn't hear you coming at all. You're very quiet."

The child spontaneously grinned, as if she had paid him a compliment.

"Do you want to play a game?" he asked and pointed at the _Scrabble_ board.

"Can you play _Scrabble_?" she asked, surprised.

"No, I don't like that one. I want to play _Memory_ ," he said.

Jean looked at the boy carefully. He was wearing a set of thermal pajamas and his feet were bare. "Are you supposed to be in bed?" she asked.

He frowned again. " _Owwhhh_ ," he whined. "I don't _waaant tooo_."

Jean was crouched down on the floor with the boy so that they were the same height. "What if we got you a glass of water first?" she asked, thinking to shepherd him to bed. Perhaps while he slept, she could find out what he knew and it would not be so invasive.

"I want a _Coke_ ," he said.

"You can't have soda before bed," Jean told him. "How about milk?"

"Mmnn," the boy responded, relenting slightly. "All right."

He turned and trotted down the hall towards the kitchen. Jean followed. The boy was standing on the hall carpet looking into the kitchen. "The floor is lava!" he declared and took a running jump onto the floor mat under the kitchen table. He scurried under the table and then clambered up into a chair. From there, he climbed onto the table top.

"I don't think you're supposed to be up there," Jean told him as she stepped into the kitchen.

"Augh!" he cried at her. "The floor is lava! You're burning up! Hurry, hurry!"

"I don't burn," she told him with seriousness. "It's my power, it protects me."

"Nooo!" he said. "No powers! That's cheating!"

Hoping to keep the boy quiet, Jean complied and stepped over onto the floor mat. She took another step over to the pad on the floor under the sink. She had to turn awkwardly to get the refrigerator door open. She peered inside and found a glass bottle of milk. Jean took it out and turned to the cupboards. The kitchen was small, but it was bright and cheerful. The cabinets were painted a glossy white and the countertops were speckled yellow and gray. Jean could see out the window over the sink. There was a small window box planted with herbs just outside the window. The scenery had changed again. She was now looking through a decorative wrought iron railing to the streets of Paris.

Jean turned to look at the boy. He was still sitting on the table with his legs dangling. "Where are we?" she asked him, confused.

"Home," he told her playfully and hunched his shoulders into a shrug.

Jean looked up at the cupboards. She found a glass behind the first cupboard door she opened.

"Can I have a cookie?" the boy asked and pointed to a jar of cookies on the countertop.

"Are you allowed to have sweets before bed?" she asked him and raised her brows. She passed him a glass full of milk.

"We could split it," he told her as he took the glass.

"You're quite the little negotiator," Jean told him and lifted the jar lid. She selected a cookie. They appeared to be homemade as they were horribly misshapen. She broke the cookie in two and handed the boy one half. Jean sat in a chair beside him while he ate his half of the cookie and drank his milk. Jean took a bite of the cookie. It didn't taste as bad as it looked. When the boy was done, he handed her the empty glass. Jean lightly brushed the crumbs from the front of his pajamas, then picked up the crumbs on the tabletop with her forefinger. She brushed them into the glass and then set it into the sink.

When she turned, the boy raised his arms. "Carry me," he told her.

"Aren't you too old for that?" Jean asked.

"Not right now," he replied, wiggling his outstretched fingers. "Pick me up."

Feeling strange in this surreal place, Jean stepped forward and put her arms around the child. He wrapped his arms around her neck and his legs around her waist. The boy was not very heavy, he was fairly thin under his pajamas. She carried him from the kitchen and down the hall. She came to the door at the end of the hall, thinking that since it was at the back of the house, it likely overlooked the courtyard. Or at least it should, if they were still in Boston and not somewhere else. Jean shifted the boy to her hip and opened the door. She found a child's bedroom. It was decorated with things that could fly; planes, jets, helicopters, birds, and bugs. Jean set the boy down onto the coverlet of his bed. He stood and hopped a few times, then flopped onto the mattress. Jean went over to the window and peered out the gauzy curtains. She saw the courtyard and the matching row house. Jean drew the shade and turned. The little boy was pointing a gun at her; a yellow, red, and blue plastic ray gun. When he pressed the trigger, the gun lit up with multicolored lights all along the barrel and made an electronic " _weeooweeooo_ " noise.

Jean felt a flutter of nervousness. "You've shot me," she said. Her smile was weak.

The boy's face had been serious when he fired at her. Now he was on his knees, holding the toy gun in his lap. He fiddled with the buttons. "It's a healing gun. It makes people better. I invented it," he said, looking down. He reached under his pillow and began pulling out an assortment of oversized plastic tools in various colors.

"Did you?" Jean asked and walked slowly towards the bed.

He nodded wordlessly and picked up a plastic screwdriver. He pretended to work on the gun, making noises through his lips as he did. Jean sat on the bed beside him.

"It's a prototype," he told her seriously.

Jean laughed a little bit. "You're very clever," she said.

He glanced up at her and then away, smiling again. He held the ray gun out again, pointing it at her chest. "Needs more testing," he said. "Hold still, it won't hurt." He pulled the trigger again and the gun made its sound and lit up with flashing lights.

The boy looked up at her. "All better?" he asked.

Jean nodded.

"Okay, now you do me," he said and gave her the gun.

Jean held it in her hand and looked at him. "Where are you hurt?" she asked.

"Here," he said and pointed at his heart.

Jean pretended to shoot him several times, as if administering a shot. He sat on the bed, his eyes closed, enduring his treatment. "How's that?" Jean asked. "Better?"

The boy reopened his eyes. "I feel the same," he observed, looking disappointed.

Jean glanced at the window and then back at the boy. "What do you feel?" she asked.

The child shrugged.

"Do you feel scared?" she asked.

He seemed not to want to answer, and he scooted up towards the head of the bed and kicked back the covers with his feet.

"Did you see something that frightened you?" Jean asked.

"I see lots of things," the boy answered. He put his toy tools onto the nightstand.

"Like what kinds of things?"

"Tuck me in," he told her and then lay down onto his side. He put his hand on his pillow and then settled his head down. He was facing away from her, looking at the door.

"You can tell me," Jean said. "It's okay."

"I'm sleepy," he told her and closed his eyes to demonstrate.

Jean patted his back and then pulled the covers up over him. She thought she should see what he knew, then erase it from his mind. She wondered where his parents were. She wondered where _she_ was. Jean brushed a few of the pale blond hairs back from the child's forehead and studied his face. He was really very cute. But he did seem a little frail and it was clear that he was exhausted now.

Jean caught a hint of movement and looked up to see the bedroom door opening fully. She startled and quickly stood from the bed. There was a man in the doorway. He was not tall, but the same height as Jean. His light brown hair, which was pulled back from his face, had begun to turn gray. His goatee had also grayed. Jean concluded that this must be the boy's grandfather. The man's eyes were blue, and as he looked at Jean, he betrayed no emotion.

Jean however, was frightened. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I can explain." Before he could act, she had entered his mind. She was going to block all memory of herself from his thoughts. To her astonishment, she found that he was not surprised nor frightened to find Jean in his grandson's bedroom. Jean quickly withdrew to look more carefully at the man.

He was holding her tan jacket in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he asked her, gesturing with the coat. He had kept the blood-splatters away from the child's view.

Jean blinked at him, then slowly shook her head from side to side.

The boy had sat up in bed, his arms extended to the man. "Granddad," he said and extracted himself from the covers.

"Now, stay in bed," the man told the boy. But the boy didn't listen. He climbed out from the bed and hopped over to his grandfather. The boy put his arms around the man's waist and hugged him.

"I –," Jean began, at a loss. The man was studying her carefully. "I'm not sure..."

The man crouched and picked up the boy with one arm, then transported him to the bed. He set the child back down, then set a hand on top of his blond head. "Settle down now," he said to the boy.

"Read me a story," the boy commanded.

"Not right now," he told him patiently. "Can you tell me... I need to speak to The Witness. Is he here?"

The boy frowned. "No," he answered sullenly. "He closed the shop. He said I was annoying him."

"Don't take it to heart," the man replied. "He didn't mean it."

"He's a grumpy grouch," the boy said and glanced at Jean. "He said he didn't want things to get weird. _Weirder_."

The man also looked up at Jean. "Yes. I see."

The boy was holding a pocket watch in his hands. It had seemingly materialized from thin air. The man glanced down as the boy clicked the watch case open. The man put a hand to his coat pocket to find it empty. "You little thief," he chided the boy fondly and mussed his hair.

The boy grinned at him and hugged the watch to his chest with both hands.

Jean shook her head, perplexed. "What is...? What is going on?"

The man beckoned her forward. "Let's talk outside," he nodded at the boy. "You go to sleep now, Jackie."

The child flopped back into the bed. He held the watch out in front of his face, peering at it nearsightedly. "I don't want to hear your boring talk. Tell me a story."

"Now you're sounding as grouchy as The Witness," the man told Jackie. "Go to sleep."

Jean hesitated before following after the man.

"You forgot to kiss me goodnight," the boy called after her.

She stopped and turned, then slowly approached him. Jean leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Better?" she asked.

Jackie nodded. He tucked the watch under his pillow. His strange red eyes were half-hidden behind heavy eyelids. She gave his blond hair one last stroke before following the man into the hall. He turned and clicked off the bedroom light before saying: "Sleep well, _petit_." The man then pulled the door closed. He left it open a fraction so that the hallway light shown into the room. Jean found herself standing very near the man in the narrow hallway.

"Do I know you?" she asked him.

"No, not yet," the man replied.

"But you seem to know me," she told him.

"I do," he said.

"Time travel?" Jean guessed.

"Something like that," the man replied. "We're somewhere outside of time. It's a sort of bubble... or maybe like a stone in a stream. Space and time flow around it, but it stays in the same place. I don't fully understand it."

"I am sort of familiar," Jean responded, thinking of the hot white room she had once exiled herself to. "I've been someplace similar before. But who are you?"

"I apologize... I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jean-Luc," the man said.

Jean's eyes widened in surprise. "Jean-Luc LeBeau? Remy's father?"

He nodded. "And you're Jean Grey...unless you're going by an alias? Jillian...?" he smiled and raised his brows.

"But – how did you know that? Did you speak to Remy?" Jean asked.

Jean-Luc shook his head. "I haven't spoken to my son in some time."

"I don't understand...," Jean began. "He said he was going to meet you. I thought you had arranged to meet with him?"

Jean-Luc's brow furrowed. "No...," he began. "He's been avoiding my calls."

Jean shook her head. "He said he was going to meet his father. At the shop. Unless he has another father I don't know about."

Jean-Luc seemed to pale at this statement. Jean could sense a flash of fear from his mind. "Perhaps we should go," he told her. "Leave this place and get our bearings."

Jean glanced back at the bedroom door. "But what about him? Jackie? We can't leave him all alone."

Jean-Luc shook his head slightly. "He's very good at looking after himself. In a very literal sense. You don't have to worry."

Jean bit the inside of her lip. "I'm afraid he might have seen something that – something that frightened him."

"He often does," Jean-Luc said with a sort of resigned sigh. "He was old before he was ever young. I would have liked to see him grow up... see de in-between part."

"I don't understand," Jean said.

"It will make sense someday," he told her and then looked her over. "Maybe sooner rather than later."

Jean-Luc turned and Jean trailed behind him. She felt confused. Jean-Luc opened the front door and started down the steps. The pair exited the apartment through the workshop and then passed into the newsstand. Jean-Luc turned and offered her her coat, holding it out for her so that she could put her arms into the sleeves. It was a strange sort of familiarity, considering Jean had only just met the man.

"I'm guessing it was cold when you first came in," Jean-Luc said.

"March," Jean told him. "In Boston."

The man nodded. "The same for me as well."

They stepped out onto the street. Jean looked around nervously. It seemed that no time had passed at all. "Jean-Luc," she began. "If Remy went to meet you –."

"I haven't seen Remy," he told her. Jean-Luc now seemed anxious as well. "I can't recall when we last spoke."

"But you called the safe house," she told him. "After I, uhm...broke into the safe."

Jean-Luc shook his head. "No," he said. "I didn't know you were at de safe house. Something is not right."

Jean felt afraid. "But who called? Why would Remy think –?"

Jean-Luc suddenly startled and said: "Agh! _Dieu_!" He put a hand to the front pocket of his slacks. He fumbled in his pocket to extract a cell phone. "I will never get used to dis thing!" he said irritably. Jean watched as he tried to unlock the phone with his thumb. The phone continued to buzz in his hand, signaling an incoming call. He added irritably: "I have no idea how it even works."

"Here, let me," she said and Jean-Luc relinquished the phone gratefully into her hands. Jean unlocked the phone with a swipe of a finger and then pressed the answer button. She held the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

There was a pregnant pause, and then a somewhat tentative: "Is – I'm calling for – Jean-Luc?"

Jean felt as if ice water had flooded her veins. The rough voice on the other end of the phone connection was unquestionably familiar. It was Logan. Jean heard herself take a quick intake of breath. Her arm instantly extended to Jean-Luc, holding the phone towards him.

"Hello?" asked Logan's voice through the phone.

Jean-Luc looked at Jean questioningly and then took the phone. "'Ello?" he asked. "Yes, speaking." Jean-Luc listened for a few moments, his expression changed to one of confusion. "Ah... but how –? When was this? He's sick? Sick wit' what?" As Jean-Luc spoke, his accent became more pronounced. Jean could sense his agitation. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he told the caller.

Jean-Luc disconnected the call and looked up at Jean, his expression perplexed.

"What is it?" Jean asked fearfully.

"Remy's in New York," Jean-Luc answered. "That was de – headmaster of de school. He says Remy is terrible sick."

Jean was stunned. How did Remy get back to New York? When did he fall ill?

Jean-Luc looked as surprised as she was. "I have to go. He said that Remy was asking for me," Jean-Luc said. "Something is wrong. It must be serious."

"Don't say that," Jean said, hoping to comfort him. "I'm sure it's going to be all right. He'll have expert care."

"I've never known Remy to ask me for anything, least not for himself," Jean-Luc said and Jean could feel his anxiety touched with sorrow. "He's only ever once asked for my help. And that's still yet t'happen."

* * *

**Next time** : The Witness Stand.


	38. Burden of Proof

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

Matt had to admit that he was well and truly lost. South End Boston streets were not laid out in the grid pattern of the New York City streets he was accustomed to. South End streets ran both north-south and east-west, as well as going diagonally, around, and no where in particular. Some streets were wide, others were just alleyways disguised as streets. Then there were parks positively everywhere, interrupting avenues with their trees and greenery. The city designers had not been clever enough to put all the parks together in one centralized place, as it was with Manhattan's Central Park.

It had finally dawned on Matt that he was no longer in possession of his phone (his wonderful, _wonderful_ phone), and had picked up Gambit's by mistake. Thinking to get his phone back, he'd tried to reach Gambit and instead heard Jean's voice on the other end of the line. He tried to let her know where they could meet. Matt had waited in the train station, expecting to find Jean, if not Gambit as well. After an hour's long wait, Matt decided Jean must not have received the whole message and that he would have to venture off into Boston on his own. Matt was sure the cab driver who had picked him up from the Back Bay Station had taken him for one wild ride and deposited him in the wrong place. These things happened when you were a blind out-of-towner. The incident had not painted a lovely image of the city or its inhabitants in Matt's mind.

Matt was walking slowly down one tree-lined street, his cane out before him, searching for any potential pitfalls in the old sidewalk. The sun had gone down and the air was chill with mist, chasing most people indoors. It was cold enough that as he passed before a shop window, he could detect the faintest of temperature changes caused by the cast of light shining from inside. Matt turned towards the warmth and put his fingertips to the great pane of glass. The window was spotted with moisture, and as he moved his hand across the glass he could feel the slightly raised letters of the shop name painted there. He had to smile to himself. Harvard Law School was on the other side of the river in Cambridge, and yet here was a shop with the peculiar name of _The Witness Stand_. Matt decided, as he was a lawyer, it had to be fate that had brought him here.

Matt searched out the front step with his cane and found the door latch with an outstretched hand. He pulled, but found the door shut tight. He had to wonder if the shop was locked. Matt tried the latch again and pushed inward. The door opened on slightly squeaky hinges. A bell rang overhead and he was greeted with the smell of paper, tobacco, and the odor of age that came with older buildings. He stepped up into the shop, feeling the warm dry air hug him as he entered. As he closed the door, the bell rang a second time. Matt turned his head to another sound; it was the ticking of a clock. But it was unlike any ticking he had heard before, as it came slowly and ponderously as if the pendulum was moving through molasses and not air. Matt imagined the clock must not keep very good time.

"You're _late_!" barked a voice from the rear of the shop.

Matt turned towards the voice as it was soon accompanied by footsteps. Matt's sensitive ears could also pick out a heartbeat and breathing. The heart rate was somewhat arrhythmic suggesting congestive heart failure and the man was faintly asthmatic, by Matt's account. Or perhaps it was allergies.

"I'm sorry, is the shop closed?" Matt asked.

"What are you _doin_ ' here?" the man asked impatiently.

Matt thought this was a strange way to greet a customer. "I actually came in here for directions," Matt told the man. "I'm afraid I'm lost. Can you –."

"Lost! I'll say!" the man declared as he approached. He took Matt's arm and turned him around to face the door. "You're not supposed t'be here!"

Matt reached out a hand and grasped a wooden shelf display. He seized the first thing he found on the shelf, which seemed to be the daily paper. "Look, if you're wanting me to buy something –."

"No, no, no!" the man told him and gave him a little push towards the door. "No time for that!"

"Sir, would you please get your hands –," Matt said as he was shuffled towards the exit.

"You need t'be on Montgomery! This is West Canton, y'dang fool!" the man continued. Matt found himself propelled out onto the front walk.

"Hey! Excuse me! I have a physical disability!" Matt said as he stumbled down the front step and onto the sidewalk. As he turned, he very accidentally-on-purpose swung his cane, thinking to give the cantankerous man a jab.

To his surprise, he found the cane was captured before it could make contact. "And I'm a geriatric wit' dementia! We all got our problems! Yours is gonna be _me_ , if y'don't get a move on!"

Matt pulled the cane out of the man's grip (not with as much force as he wanted, taking the man's health into consideration). "And people say New Yorkers are rude!" Matt announced. He turned to walk back the way he came.

"You're goin' the wrong way! Turn left! No, your _other_ left!" the man shouted after him.

Matt came to a halt and turned back towards the man.

"Step to, young man! Lives are at stake! Time's a-wastin'!" With that, the surly old man returned to his shop and slammed the door. Even as the door rattled in its frame, Matt could hear the man mutter: "Last time I rely on an Irishman! Good thing I still have Plan D in my back pocket."

"Good God," Matt said and shook out the newspaper he still held. "What the hell was that all about?" As he ran his fingertips over the header, his sensitive touch could pick up the slight change between paper and ink. He found the paper to be a copy of the _Boston Herald_. But the date seemed to be incorrect as it read Monday and today was Sunday. Confused, Matt fingered the date. Yes, the paper was dated for the next day.

_Police investigating South End shooting_ read the lead article. _Helen Moreux, South End woman, was found in her home suffering from a gunshot wound..._

_Helen Moreux!_ Matt thought. But she was the woman he was here to find! This didn't make any sense!

Just then, Matt heard the sudden sharp sound of gunfire in the distance. His mind became acutely focused on the sound. The newspaper fell to the pavement as Matt took off at a sprint. He turned left onto a residential street and dashed down the sidewalk. He paused, searching for sound, his radar sense painting an image of the world around him. From above came a soft creak; a window left open and moving on its hinges, stirred by a faint breeze. From that open window, he could hear voices. One was low and steady, the other, ragged and strained. Matt turned towards the sound, took a cement staircase in two bounds, then leapt upwards to grasp the decorative crenelations over the door. He quickly scaled the building's facade, jumping up into the window well of the second floor, then hooking the end of his cane into the wrought iron railing surrounding the porch above him. In an instant, he was propelling himself upward to land on the railing, then hopping down onto the porch to face a pair of open French doors. Past the doors and inside the room, he could sense two figures. One turned and stood as Matt entered the room. The figure had been crouched over the prone form of the victim. Matt could smell the blood as well as the tang of a recently fired weapon. The victim had been shot.

"Stay where you are!" Matt told the standing figure.

"Ah, dammit," said the figure which Matt now knew to be a woman...a woman he recognized.

"You!" Matt said and quickly threw one end of his billy club in the woman's direction.

The woman ducked and the club flew over her head to strike and embed itself into the opposite wall. Matt leapt upon the desk that separated them and launched himself at the woman.

"Don't – !" the woman shouted as she moved to stand. Matt was upon her, hoping to bear her slight figure to the ground, but the woman twisted and they both fell onto their sides. She kicked away from him and hit a shelf full of books. Books tumbled down onto the pair as she struggled to regain her feet. Matt grasped her ankle and pulled her down, throwing himself onto her back as she squirmed beneath him. He twisted her arm behind her back.

"Don't make me hurt you!" the woman panted, even as Matt's weight pressed her to the floorboards.

"What are you doing here, Belle?" Matt demanded.

"I warned you," Belle answered and Matt felt a searing pain in his thigh. The assassin had stabbed him.

Momentarily stunned by the pain, Matt found himself thrown from Belle's back as she snaked out from under him. She sent her elbow into his chin as she did, skidded backwards across the floor on her bottom, and then somersaulted to her feet. Matt clutched his jaw and launched the other half of his club in Belle's direction. She had flipped to land upon the desktop, then dropped to the floor as the club whipped above her. Matt yanked back on the cord and the club returned to his hand. Belle reappeared from behind the desk, then turned and dashed for the window. She was standing upon the railing and from what Matt could sense, was now holding a briefcase in one hand. Belle dropped from the railing as Matt dashed to the window. She landed in a crouch upon the sidewalk below, then turned to face in Matt's direction.

Matt was torn. He could pursue Belle or go to the woman who had been shot. He could hear the victim's hoarse, uneven breathing. Belle turned and ran down the street. Matt hesitated, gripping the railing with both hands. He muttered a curse and turned back to the shooting victim. Just then, he heard heavy footsteps on the sidewalk below. A man was running towards the house.

Matt could hear the man's voice: "Signs of forced entry – intruder on foot, fleeing the scene. A woman, heading west towards –."

Someone had seen Belle drop from the window and was now reporting the crime to the police, thinking it a burglary. Matt leaned over the landing to sense the man approaching from below.

"Someone has been shot!" Matt called down to him. "Get the paramedics here!" He then leapt out from the window to land before the astonished man on the street. "Do it!" Matt barked at the man. Matt turned and ran after Belle.

"A second intruder –!" reported the man who Matt thought must surely be in law enforcement from the way he spoke. "Send an ambulance. There may be a shooting victim! At eighty-five Montgomery!"

Matt raced after Belle, the pain from the stab wound tearing into his upper thigh. Her footfalls were quick and nearly silent, but he could still hear her ragged breathing and the beating of her heart. As empty as the streets were, it was easy to keep track of her. However, she was widening the distance with every second.

"Stop!" Matt called after her, the pain shot up his leg with every other stride. "Do you have any idea who you've killed?"

"I didn't kill her!" Belle shouted back over her shoulder. She splashed through a puddle.

"Fatally wounded, then, if we're mincing words!" Matt replied as he splashed after her.

"It wasn't me!" Belle called. "I didn't shoot de woman!"

"You just _happened_ to find her shot in her office?" Matt asked with clear disbelief. "And you just _happened_ to be standing over her when I arrived?"

"Yes, that's exactly it!" Belle responded as she turned a corner. She dashed across the street just before a passing car.

The car's horn blared as it skidded to a halt on the damp asphalt. Matt launched himself into the air, rolled across the hood of the vehicle, and continued his pursuit.

"If you're innocent, why are you running?" Matt asked as they passed into a park.

"Because you're chasing me!" Belle responded and vaulted a park bench.

"I'll stop chasing if you stop running," Matt bartered, clearing the bench a moment later.

"You stop first!" Belle answered.

"No, _you_ stop! You carry the burden of proof!"

"What happened t''innocent 'til proven guilty'?" Belle shouted.

Matt wasn't going to be able to catch her, even if he continued to run. He trotted to a halt on the far side of the park while Belle continued across the opposite street. Matt stood, sensing her run a few more feet. To his surprise, Belle's footfalls slowed and she too came to a stop. She turned and started back towards him. Matt waited at the edge of the park for her to approach. She stopped several feet away at the edge of the sidewalk framing the park grass. She was close enough now that he could hear the bursts of air leaving her lungs and the rush of her heartbeat.

"Did you shoot that woman?" Matt asked, his voice even.

"I did not," Belle responded. "I don't even own a gun."

From her heart rate, he could tell that she was telling the truth. "Do you know who she was?" he asked.

"Not personally," Belle admitted. "We had a business relationship."

"She hired you?" Matt asked, surprised.

"Yes," Belle answered. "Helen Moreux."

Matt was startled to find his suspicions confirmed. Somehow, the newspaper from that shop had predicted the shooting. Matt asked: "If you were working for her, who were you conspiring to kill?"

"None of your business," Belle responded.

"Whoever it was might be the person responsible for shooting Helen."

"He wasn't responsible," Belle told him. "On account of him all ready bein' dead."

"How do you know another assassin wasn't hired?"

"Because that was an accidental gunshot wound," Belle said. "From de woman's own handgun."

"Why was Helen armed?" Matt asked. "Did she have a reason to have her gun loaded and ready?"

"There was someone else inside de house when I arrived," Belle answered. "Another woman. I tried t'stop her but she got away. I couldn't just leave Moreux on de floor."

"So you have a conscience after all," Matt observed.

"I still have t'pay my bills," Belle retorted. "She owed me."

Matt paused to consider her. "Is that why you stole that briefcase?" he asked.

Belle let out a little snort of disgust. "I didn't _steal_ nothin'," she said with contempt. "De woman asked me to take it."

"Why? What's in it?" Matt asked.

"None of your business," she repeated.

"Do you know who that woman is?" Matt persisted.

"I all ready –," Belle began.

"No, I mean _who_ she is – to Gambit."

Belle sucked in a tiny breath. In the distance, and getting closer every moment, was the sound of sirens from emergency vehicles. Two police cruisers and an ambulance, by Matt's judgement.

"I was coming here to meet with Helen," Matt continued. "She said she had come across some e-mails, some information, that led her to believe someone intended to kill Remy LeBeau. The woman is a hacker. She's an embezzler. An inside trader. She launders funds through multiple channels. She told me all of this. She also told me she is Gambit's mother."

Belle swallowed. "Did you tell Remy dis?"

"No," Matt replied.

"Good," Belle responded, then turned to walk away.

Matt darted forward and then reached out to grasp Belle by her upper arm. "Where are you going?"

"I'm goin' home," she told him. "It's too damn cold up here."

"What about Gambit?"

"What about him?" Belle snapped.

Matt's hand dropped down Belle's arm to clutch the briefcase. "What's in the briefcase?" he asked firmly.

Belle turned towards him. "Answers," Belle responded. "T'questions no one asked."

Matt now had his hand on the briefcase handle. "Helen wanted you to have it. Why? To give to Gambit?"

Belle tugged back her arm. "She wanted him t'have de truth. About himself, his folks. If it makes her happy, I'll let her t'ink I give it to him."

"But you aren't going to do that," Matt asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. "You're going to keep that information from him. Why? To use it against him somehow?"

"That's not it at all," Belle said hotly. "Who d'you think you are, anyway? Fancy New York City lawyer man – dis is no business of yours."

"Listen, I got pulled into this and I intend to see it through," Matt told her. "Who tried to murder Gambit and why?"

Belle suddenly took a step forward putting herself directly before Matt. The top of her head barely reached his chin, but it was hard not to feel menaced by this relatively diminutive opponent. "You want to stick your nose in other people's business? You want answers? Fine. I'll tell you who wants Remy dead. His own cold-blooded father, that's who."

Matt was taken aback.

"As to why, I can only guess that it's on account of him bein' a coward. Ashamed that his own flesh and blood was born a mutant," Belle continued.

"That's...tragic," Matt admitted.

"And why I'm not goin' t'be de one to tell Remy any kind of truth that won't do him any good," Belle finished and drew away. Matt retained his hold on the briefcase handle and pulled her back.

"He should at least be given a choice," Matt told him. "You can't deny him the truth."

"You don't know Remy," Belle answered. " _I_ do. I know him better than anybody else. And when confronted wit' a truth, Remy'll do nothin' but bury his head in de sand."

"Give me the briefcase and I'll let him decide what to do for himself," Matt replied.

Belle let out a small sigh. "He never even let himself dream about who his birth parents were," Belle told him quietly. "He knew he'd only be disappointed."

"So you want to protect him," Matt said. "You must love him still?"

Belle paused, seeming to consider. "I did," she admitted. "I do mostly. Even though I know he doesn't love me de same way. And enough so that I wouldn't cause him any more hurt than I all ready have."

"You don't have to do anything but give me the briefcase," Matt told her. "He won't ever know you were involved."

Matt could sense her resistance falter while the desire to be unburdened grew. When she suddenly released the briefcase handle into his hand, it was still something of a surprise. He had to lunge forward slightly to keep it in his grip. Matt found himself head-level with the assassin. He could feel the soft hush of her breath on his face.

"You're a nosy busybody, _Diable Rouge_ ," she told him. "Not everyone needs all de answers. Not everyone needs de...burden of proof."

"It's my job. It's what I do," Matt responded. "Uncovering truths. Instead of burying them."

"You can leave that part t'me," Belle said, her tone falsely light. She stepped back and began to turn away. "I'm good at havin' things buried. I'll be seein' you, _Diable_. Too bad y'can't say de same about me. I'm really quite attractive, I'll have you know."

"I'll have to take your word for it," Matt responded. "But my sense of touch can paint a vivid picture..."

"Nice line, _ch_ _è_ _r,_ " Belle said and paused. "But I'm onto you. Natchois mentioned you were somethin' of a ladies' man."

"Wha – wait...," Matt said, feeling a bit as if he'd been caught out. "You know Elektra?"

"Surprised? Is it so unusual for a couple of assassins t'get together and compare notes?" Belle asked, somewhat amused.

Matt felt himself flush with irritation.

"She might have mentioned you were a dynamite kisser," Belle teased.

Matt's shoulders relaxed somewhat. "Well. Okay, then."

Belle had now moved away. She added airily: "I suppose I'll not find out which is de better in a lip lock – you... or Remy. _Quel dommage_... And I'm sure you'd just _hate_ N'Awlins. Almost completely lawless... full of crime and corruption..." Belle continued as she walked down the sidewalk into the darkness. "Sordid, steamy affairs... all sorts of – outrageous debauchery... clandestine encounters in the dead of night... Makes New York look like Candyland..."

"I still have your number," Matt said after her.

From a distance he heard Belle say: " _C'_ _est ça_..."

"But you did stab me in the leg," Matt continued.

"I did warn you first, _ch_ _è_ _r_ ," Belle said. "And I only do that wit' people I _like_."

* * *

**Next time:** In which Gambit wanders the desert and encounters the Devil.


	39. Desert Fathers

**The Syrian Desert, Outside Damascus, Syria**

**The Past, Eighty-Seven Years Ago**

Gambit had been to Hell before, or rather, a hell dimension called Limbo. He'd gone because he had been asked and because it had seemed the thing to do; to go and rescue another teammate. Never mind that he'd only been asked because he was expendable. Never mind that the person he'd been tasked to rescue was a woman, or girl really, that hadn't spoken more than five words to him in all the time he had been an X-Man. Never mind the fact that if it had been _him_ and not Illyana Rasputin who had been sucked down into a hell dimension, the rest of the X-Men would have cut their losses and left him to the demons.*

Thinking those kinds of dark thoughts had gotten him into trouble in that horrible place, and since then he'd made a conscious effort to keep a grip on his emotions and stifle negative thoughts, just in case it happened again. Visiting Limbo was not an experience he thought on, not if he could help it. But when he did, he could recall the awesome heat, the oppressive odor, the terrible noise, the calamity and chaos...a bit like New Orleans, really. He should have hated every moment of it. Instead, the side of himself that he wished didn't exist had reveled in the mayhem. Suddenly, he had been in control amidst the turmoil, empowered, feared, and people had to listen and obey, whether they wanted to or not. Later he'd been disgusted with himself for enjoying it so much. Gambit wasn't that kind of person. He wasn't. That person was someone else, it _had_ to be.

Gambit was certain he wasn't in Limbo now, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing. At least if he'd been transported to Hell, he would know where he was. What he had thought was a sea of fire had in fact been the shifting sands of a desert glowing orange-red in the setting sun. He'd fallen several feet to land on his right shoulder on the side of a sand dune, then tumbled head over heels down the slope to come to a sliding halt on the rocky, barren ground. He had had a few moments to comprehend that he wasn't burning for all eternity before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Instead of burning, he was freezing. Gambit woke, shivering convulsively. While unconscious, he had pulled his arms under his body, instinctively trying to conserve heat. He turned his head with a groan, opening his eyes to darkness. The arid landscape was bathed in stark blue-black shadows and silver-white moonlight. The surrounding sand and rock was coated with a thin layer of frost. When he exhaled, his breath plumed white in the air. Gambit forced himself into sitting position, shoving his cold hands into his coat and under his armpits. He looked around, searching for some indication of where he was. Gambit saw rocky hills and long expanses of empty, sandy ground. He looked up at the sky, but there were no answers there either. The sky was a perfect shade of midnight blue, the stars seemed brighter than he had ever seen them before.

For a while, he stared upward, trying to decipher the moon's movement across the sky. When he finally concluded that the moon was still rising, he knew it was not yet morning. Gambit stood on somewhat shaky legs, feeling oddly fatigued. He turned himself to face eastward and began moving. Gambit had no idea if he would find anything to the East, or if there would just be more desert.

With the surrounding darkness and desolate landscape, he was left with nothing but his own thoughts, unhelpful as they were. He became preoccupied with what Sinister had told him. Sinister never lied, but he did withhold certain truths as a way to maintain control and to manipulate. Gambit struggled to puzzle out what Sinister had _not_ been telling him, rather than what he had actually said. What could Sinister have meant about the X-Men having held his younger counterpart prisoner? It certainly wasn't impossible. Beast had gone into the past to retrieve the original five X-Men, for no purpose that Gambit could discern other than to try and punish Cyclops. It seemed unnaturally cruel, not just for the intended target, but for the young time-displaced X-Men as well. Gambit wondered why anyone would bring his younger self to the future. Did they want to make an example of him? Or was it as Sinister claimed: that his teammates wanted to prevent the tragedies he'd been a party to? If Sinister's intent was to throw Gambit off his game, then he had succeeded.

If young Remy was killed, Gambit wondered what would happen to himself. Would he disappear? Would he vanish from history? And if what Sinister had said was true, wouldn't Gambit recall having been to the future as a boy?

_Not necessarily,_ his unhelpful brain said.

"Shut up, you," Gambit said aloud.

Gambit thought that perhaps since he hadn't spontaneously disappeared, his younger self must still be alive. He wondered if he might be able to meet his younger self. He wondered what he would say. What was the turning point where it all went wrong? Could he warn himself away from Sinister? Convince himself that there must be another way other than turning to that madman for help? Maybe he could go further back. Maybe he could stop himself from killing Julien, his crazy brother-in-law. Maybe he could convince himself to take Belle and just run away from it all. Or he could tell himself not to be such a selfish bastard, to not play games, and he could stop himself from endangering his brother Henri and getting Genevieve killed.** Gambit wondered how young his younger self really was...eighteen? Maybe sixteen? Younger? For a moment, his heart seemed to skip in his chest. Could he save his cousin Etienne from his untimely death? How many other lives could be made better if Gambit could just go back and make different choices?

_Dangerous thinking_ , his brain told him.

"Why is it so _cold_?" Gambit asked. His teeth chattered. The landscape seemed to have not changed at all though he had continued walking for some time. He climbed the slope of another dune, hoping to see something from the summit. At the top, he turned, searching for signs of life. There was nothing but more sand and darkness as far as he could see. With a sigh, he started back down the dune, striding ever eastward.

Gambit knew he had to get back to Jean somehow, to warn her that Sinister was nearby. Gambit feared Jean would be recaptured. What would the X-Men say to that, if Jean was stolen back by Sinister while under Gambit's protection? And what would happen to Jean? He had never asked what indignity or violation she had suffered while in Sinister's company, but no doubt it was something terrible. Sinister could turn the most hardened and cruel men into fearful, meek semblances of their former selves. Gambit himself had been transformed into something...unrecognizable. If Sinister could lay low the coldest and most cynical of men, what would he do to a sensitive and kindhearted person like Jean? What damage had he all ready done to make her question herself, to not trust her friends?

_Jean_ , Gambit thought, concentrating hard on his words. _Jean, can you hear me?_

He received no response. Well, that just figured. The one time she wasn't listening to his thoughts was when he needed her to. But it was possible that Jean was too far away to hear him, wherever he was. Gambit searched his pockets, looking for something to do other than think. He had a pack of cigarettes, missing one cigarette, and a bag of jelly beans. He should not have had either of these vices, but Lent had proven impossible to stick to, like all of his other commitments.

Gambit continued to walk, feeling better now that he was moving. At least physically. Sinister had given him too much to think about; his powers, his past. Sinister's whisperings in his ear made Gambit's skin crawl. His mind veered away from the words Sinister had spoken, the words about his parents. That was something he never, ever thought about.

The moon's traversal of the sky signaled it was nearing dawn. Gambit had been walking for hours. He wondered if he could see the sky lighten, or if it was just the hopeful imaginings of his mind. He encountered another hill and started up it. Once at the top he could spy a rocky outcropping in the distance. He had to veer off slightly to the south to reach it. As he walked, the sky did indeed grow lighter. A wind came and snatched at the hem of his coat and threw his long hair forward into his eyes. Gambit pushed his hair back, but the wind came again, this time bringing a light sting of sand against the back of his neck. He pulled up his collar and shrugged into his jacket. Gambit glanced up from his feet to see the rocks looming closer in the distance. He picked up his pace. The sun crawled over the horizon, spreading pale yellow light across the sand. He expected brightness, but the light seemed muted and the air a hazy brown. The wind came again in a burst that had him hunkering down into the protection of his coat. Gambit could detect a faint sound, like the rushing of a current. He became hopeful. Perhaps beyond the rocks he would see the ocean. The wind pushed at him again and Gambit looked up at the sky and the weak sunshine. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw something in the distance. It appeared a giant brown cloud was rising on the horizon. Gambit squinted as sand was suddenly blown into his face. He came to a halt and stared at the brown cloud. The wind tossed his hair and sent his coat flapping against his legs.

"Ah, crud," Gambit said, though the statement really didn't convey the sensation of imminent doom he was experiencing.

Gambit turned and started at a run towards the rocks. The sound he was hearing was not water, but the rush of wind and sand in the storm coming up behind him. He was running full out towards the rocks, hoping to reach them before the storm reached him. As he ran, he pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief, but found none. Instead he seized the hem of his pink shirt and tore it open. It split at the seam under his arm and he ripped a square section from the fabric to tie it tightly around his nose and mouth. The storm was traveling faster than he was. The windstorm was upon him before he reached the rocks. Visibility instantly diminished and he was lost in darkness. Gambit clutched his hands over his ears and continued forward, stumbling over unseen stones. He tumbled against the rocks, finding them at last. He crawled along until he found the leeward side of a large rock and ducked down, taking shelter under his jacket. The sand still managed to reach him under his coat as the wind buffeted him. The wind threatened to suck the air from his lungs, the sand scoured his nose and throat. It became unbearably cold as the wind's fierceness increased. Gambit's arms were over his head and the sand burned his bare hands.

He wondered how long he would have to endure the tearing winds. His breaths were shallow as he gasped, his body curled in fetal position as the storm raged around him. The sand claimed every piece of him, parching his skin, mouth, and throat. Even as the sand set his skin on fire with pain, the temperature continued to plummet. Gambit didn't know what would kill him first; suffocation, dehydration, or hypothermia. Wouldn't that be ironic, freezing to death in the desert and suffocating on dry land?

In desperation he thought: _Help! Someone help me!_ He didn't know if he was still hoping Jean could hear him, or if he was praying to God.

The storm eventually began to ebb, though it seemed a long time coming. Gambit imagined he must have gotten lost in a daze as it was awhile after the storm had ended before he unfurled himself from his makeshift shelter. When he finally moved, sand and debris fell from his jacket and hair. He had been partially buried in sand. Gambit used the rock to pull himself to his feet. It was a struggle to swallow, his mouth was full of grit in spite of the scrap of fabric he had tied over his face. His sunglasses were so badly scratched he could no longer see through them. He blinked, his eyelids felt as if they were made of sandpaper. Gambit hugged the rock, spontaneously coughing in prolonged bursts that had his chest aching. With his head on his folded arms, he groaned. After a long while, he began to move again. Gambit turned back to the rocky outcropping and began to climb. He had to stop several times when his muscles began to cramp. He realized he needed to find water fast. Once at the top of the rocky incline, he was able to gain an understanding of the land much better than he had from the dunes. To the East lay nothing but the fading mass of the storm cloud. Gambit turned in a slow circle. He thought he spied a smudge of something in the West. It might be another rocky hill, or it could be a city. Gambit sank to a crouch, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head hanging down. Of course, if it was in fact a city, he had been traveling in the wrong direction.

Gambit made his descent, slipping several times on the rocks as his strength failed him. At the base of the rocky hill, he slouched with his back against the stone. He sat in the shade, contemplating what he should do next. He could begin walking towards the West and hope what he had seen was civilization. Or he could wait here until nightfall and conserve his strength; sandstorms would be less likely during the night. However, the longer he remained here, the more likely he would die of dehydration. Gambit coughed dryly. It seemed fatigue was making the decision for him. His eyes closed as he leaned forward to brace his forehead on his knees, his chin lowered to rest against his chest. The sun moved, but he made no effort to hide himself from its rays. He wondered if sleep would refuel him, or kill him.

It took several hours to find the answer. Gambit was rudely jostled awake with a jab to the shoulder. Gambit reared back with surprise, his eyes blinking rapidly as he looked about in a daze.

" _J_ _innī!_ " cried a voice, which was then echoed by several other male voices.

"Oh, that can't be good," Gambit said, looking up at the group of shadowed figures standing around him. They were silhouetted against the fading daylight, blue-black shadows against the fiery orange of the sky. One thing was clear to Gambit however, all of the men were armed.

" _Jinnī! Jinnī!_ " one of the men continued to declare, his voice expressing shock.

" _S_ _hayātīn_ _!_ " another shouted, readying his rifle.

"No! No!" Gambit said, raising his hands in a show of surrender and protest. "Not Satan, definitely not him! Mutant, mutant!"

There were five men in all. Some seemed to want to flee, others held their ground and seemed intent on doing Gambit harm. One simply stared with a stupefied expression on his face. Gambit saw that all were bearded and dressed in what he recognized as Bedouin garb, a long, cotton robe-like dress with a sort of white hood tied over their heads. They all had curved blades at their waists. Gambit searched his memory for a greeting.

" _As-salāmu `alaykum_ ," he said, though he was pretty sure he butchered the execution. The second go-to phrase he knew in several languages was: "Please, don't kill me" followed by "Where's the toilet?"

The men paused, muttering to themselves with indecision.

"English?" Gambit asked hopefully, his hands still raised.

"English! English!" the men repeated. One man, the leader of the group, nodded decisively to himself. The man suddenly stepped back beyond the rocks and disappeared from view, only to reappear with a boy in tow. The leader held the boy firmly by his thin arm and then thrust the child in Gambit's direction.

The boy took a few stumbling steps forward, and as he righted himself looked straight on into Gambit's eyes. He paled under his dusky complexion and startled with fright. The men shouted at the boy and he tore his gaze away from Gambit to look back at them for direction.

"Do you speak English?" Gambit asked the boy.

The boy flinched and averted his eyes, making some kind of sign with his hand. Gambit recognized the gesture; he'd seen something similar in a lot of different cultures. It was a warding off of the evil eye.

"Look, I'm not a devil," Gambit told the boy. "I won't hurt you."

"Do – do not speak to me, Whisperer!" the boy told him in heavily accented English. He continued to look away.

"Not a whisperer either, though my elocution ain't the greatest. Name's Remy," Gambit told him. "What is –."

"French! French!" one of the rough-looking fellows shouted. He picked up a stone and flung it at Gambit.

"What de –!" Gambit said and ducked as the stone struck the rock behind his head, raining debris down onto his head and shoulders.

"French _shayātīn_ _!_ " a man cried and aimed his rifle.

"No! I'm _not_ French, I'm an American! American!" Gambit cried, though he had second thoughts about admitting he was from the States to these people. Judging from their dress and language, Gambit guessed he had to be in the Middle East or northern Africa.

The leader raised his arm to stay one of his men from firing. He muttered something to the boy and tossed a coil of rope in the boy's direction. He indicated that the boy should pick up the rope and tie Gambit up. The boy just stood there looking frightened and the man began to shout at him.

"Hey, relax!" Gambit said. "Look, I'll come peacefully. No troubles from me!"

The boy cast a glance over his shoulder, looking wary. Hesitantly, he crouched and picked up the rope. "No troubles, Whisperer," the boy said, trying to sound confident. He took a step forward with the rope outstretched. "You just stay where you are."

"Sure, no problem," Gambit told him. "You wouldn't happen to have any water, would you?"

"Put out your hands," the boy ordered.

Gambit complied but said: "About that water..."

The boy looped the rope around one of Gambit's wrists, then the other. He deftly tied Gambit's wrists together, then stepped back hurriedly, letting a length of rope unfurl from his hands. Gambit studied the knots. "Nice job. You're pretty quick," Gambit said. "I've been out here a good while now, and could really use –."

The boy placed the end of the rope in his leader's hand and hurried away. Gambit found himself yanked forward. He managed to catch himself on his elbows to prevent himself from landing on the rocky ground face-first. The men continued shouting at him until he managed to climb to his knees. The leader tugged on the rope and Gambit nearly pitched forward a second time. Instead, he grabbed the rope with his bound hands and tugged back.

"All right, _mon_ _capitaine_ ," Gambit said darkly. "Be nicer, or you'll catch de devil from me. We'll see where you lead me, then."

Gambit managed to climb to his feet by bracing himself against some rocks. He patiently followed after the quintet of men. Now out in the waning sunlight, he could see that all of them looked much the worse for wear. They were all scarred and unkempt, their features hard, their clothes soiled. Beyond the rocks Gambit saw they had three camels and a pair of horses. There was also a mule which was being tended to by the boy. The pack animals were heavily laden with goods. From the looks of this band of travelers, Gambit thought he recognized the sort he had fallen in with – likely they were mercenaries and thieves.

The group leader moved to the better looking of the two horses and slung himself into the saddle. He gestured at the boy with the length of rope, shouting and beckoning for the boy to come forward. The boy led the mule and reluctantly took the rope from his leader, then affixed it to the mule's pack with another smart knot. With the rest of the band mounted and ready, they started off towards the setting sun. Gambit trailed behind the boy, who traveled on foot beside the mule. The boy occasionally cast glances back at Gambit.

"Hey, boy," Gambit said hoarsely. "D'you like candy? I got some jelly beans. I'll trade you for some water."

"Be silent, Whisperer!" the boy hissed.

"How about some cigarettes instead?" Gambit bartered.

The boy made the ward-sign again and looked away. Gambit sighed, which turned into a spate of coughing. By the time he caught his breath, he was too exhausted to speak again. He trudged after the boy and his mule. Gambit thought the boy might be nine or ten. He was thin, with lots of dark curly hair, large, haunted dark eyes, and a frowning, full-lipped mouth. The boy was positively cherubic and Gambit felt bad for him. It wasn't easy to have a mug like that when you were a boy. He wondered what this kid was doing with a bunch of rough-necks out in the middle of a desert. Nothing good, probably. The dusk faded into night. Gambit concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The slack between his bound wrists and the mule began to grow taut as he lagged further and further behind. Gambit felt lightheaded and his gait was uneven. It wasn't long before his toe caught a rock and he stumbled. When he fell he did not have the strength to catch himself. He hit the ground and was dragged several feet by the bindings around his wrists. The mule stopped, but Gambit continued to lay flat on his stomach, his arms stretched painfully in front of him.

Gambit lay with his eyes closed, just glad to have a moment to rest. He was startled awake when a splash of water hit the side of his face. He managed to open his eyes, feeling some blessed moisture at last on his lips. Another burst of water in the face had him sitting upright. Ahead in the darkness, the leader was berating the boy for lagging behind. It seemed not to matter, as the rest of the men were dismounting to set up camp. Gambit looked at the boy who stood before him. He held a bladder of water in his hands. The boy's expression was a mix of stubbornness and bravado. He extended the water skin in Gambit's direction.

Gambit reached out tentatively to take the bladder from the boy's grip, unsure if the boy would actually relinquish the container into his hands. The boy released the bladder and Gambit felt the weight drop suddenly into his hands.

"You weaken, _shayātīn_ ," the boy said uncertainly.

Gambit put the skin to his lips and took in a mouthful of water. He thought he might be hallucinating, he had never tasted anything so good. After he swallowed several gulps from the skin, he lowered it to his lap. He breathed heavily for a moment before saying: "Thanks. Thank you. _Dieu_. God bless you, boy."

The boy shuffled forward. "You are not a _shayātīn_ , are you?"

Gambit shook his head. "I have no idea what that is, but I can guess. I'm not a devil or demon or whatever else."

"But your eyes," the boy began. "You must be cursed."

"Sometimes it sure do feel that way," Gambit agreed, looking up at the boy. "You speak English pretty good. Better'n me. Someone teach you?"

The boy took a moment to process Gambit's words. "The Englishman," the boy nodded. "He taught me."

"You must be a quick study," Gambit said. He nodded his head in the direction of the band leader, who was issuing gruff orders to the other men. Gambit asked: "That your father?"

The boy turned to glance at the leader, then looked back at Gambit, a surly expression on his face. "No. That is not my father. My father and mother are dead."

Gambit blinked slowly and looked at the boy. "I'm sorry t'hear your folks're dead. But glad t'hear that man ain't your poppa. Wouldn't want you t'be offended when I told you that man seems like a real horse's ass."

The boy paused to parse out Gambit's words, then smiled a bit. "Do not insult the asses of horses," the boy said.

"What you doin' with a bunch of men like these?" Gambit asked. "They send you t'do their dirty work, having me tied up. When they think me a devil. Bunch of cowards, them."

The boy hunched his shoulders. "There is no one else. When my parents were killed, I had no where else to go."

Gambit nodded. "Them's tough breaks, _petit._ Were your momma and daddy killed in de war?"

"In _al-Hariqa_ ," the boy answered. "The fire. My father was a professor, at the school of medicine. I was to be a student of medicine as well. Now I am just a thief."

Gambit gave him a close-lipped smile. "Sometimes life deals you a bum hand. Found myself in a similar situation myself when I was your age."

The boy blinked at him. "You are a thief as well?" he asked.

"Well, I was...until some dreamer put ideas in my head that there was somethin' bigger for me," Gambit said.

The boy's eyes flashed defiantly. "There _is_ more for me... something more than wasting my time with these –," the boy cast a disgusted look over his shoulder at the five men, " – these cretins."

"De company you keep makes all de difference," Gambit shrugged. "I had myself a rude awakening... Sometimes it's time t'stop dreamin' and make the best out of reality."

The boy turned his surly expression onto Gambit. "You are wrong, there is no _best_ in this reality," he said. "The Englishman said I show promise. He says there are rewards for a clever boy like me."

"That so?" Gambit said. "You mind tellin' me where –."

Gambit was suddenly interrupted when the leader appeared to bark an order at the boy. The boy gave him a defiant glare and the man raised his hand as if to backhand the boy in the face. Before he could strike, the boy spat on the ground and whirled away to tend to the animals. The man snarled at the boy, then turned to stare at Gambit. He pulled his curved blade from his belt and pointed it in Gambit's direction with a muttered curse. Gambit offered him a pleasant smile and let the constant flow of energy build in his body, setting his eyes alight with a bright red glow. The man took a step back, his blade still held at the ready though his confidence wavered. The man let out a curse, then he too spat on the ground and turned away, but not before Gambit saw him make the suspicious ward-sign with a nervous hand.

Gambit settled himself into a more comfortable sitting position and drank some more water from the skin. He could free himself from his bonds at any time, however, his chances of finding his way out of the desert were better if he remained with this ragtag crew. He watched as the men built a fire using dried camel dung. They squatted down around the small fire eating provisions they had taken from their packs. Gambit watched the boy feed and water the animals. He unloaded some of their burden and unsaddled the horses. When he was through with his chores, he sat and leaned his back against the side of a camel that hand hunkered down into the sand. The sun had set. Gambit figured he was in for another cold night, but then again, he wanted nothing to do with camels or camel by-products. At least he had water. He drank as much as he could before stoppering the skin and setting it down into his lap. He still had no idea where he was exactly, or where these men were taking him. He also didn't understand why Sinister would send him to the Middle East. Gambit resolved in his mind that this recent incarnation of Sinister was an insane, clone-molesting, doughnut-eating, psychopath and just leave it at that.

He let his ruminations lull him into a daze, half-in and half-out of sleep. He was still sitting upright for the most part, but he'd slept in a lot more uncomfortable positions before (which brought his teammate Frenzy to mind, but never mind that). The cold eventually began to eat its way through his coat. Gambit shivered and rose to his feet. He saw that his bindings had been affixed to a stake in the ground. The guard in charge of watching him noticed Gambit moving and rose as well, his blade flashing in the moonlight. The guard shouted something, giving Gambit every indication that he wanted Gambit to remain stationary.

Gambit shrugged and said: "Whazzat now?" Gambit shuffled his feet and blew warmth into his hands.

The guard repeated his command and took a step forward with the knife. Gambit withdrew his cigarettes from his coat pocket, holding the pack in both his bound hands. "Wanna smoke?" he asked the guard.

The guard looked suspicious but lowered his weapon slowly.

"Mm...nicotine. You likey?" Gambit said, offering the pack.

Within a few minutes, he and the guard were happily puffing away. Gambit relinquished the rest of his cigarettes to the guard in exchange for a blanket. It smelled like camel. Gambit made the best of things and hunkered down under the blanket, waiting for the dawn while willing his brain to stop nattering at him. Gambit might have nodded off somewhere between two in the morning and dawn. The gang of thieves roused themselves just as the sky began to lighten to a pearly gray. Gambit hoped the change in temperature wouldn't bring another sand storm. The leader continued to harry the boy, who was now even grumpier than he had been the previous night. Gambit found his leash affixed onto the mule once more and in no time they were off again. They were heading West and somewhat to the North.

"Hey, where we goin'?" Gambit asked the boy.

The boy turned to look back at him. "To the Englishman," the boy answered.

"Yeah, you mentioned him. Where abouts does de chap reside? 'Cause I can tell you for certain, this ain't England," Gambit said.

"Do you not know where you are?" the boy asked incredulously.

"I know I ain't in Kansas anymore," Gambit said.

"Pardon?"

"Can you please report our approximate location?" Gambit annunciated loudly.

"We are outside of _Dimashq_ ," the boy told him slowly, as if he were talking to someone very slow-witted.

"Ain?" Gambit said.

"The City of Jasmine," the boy continued. "Do you not know it? In _Sūriyā_."

Gambit came to an abrupt halt, but then started up again when the mule pulled him forward. "I'm in Syria?" he asked, appalled. "In Damascus? Ah...shh – shoot."

The boy seemed a bit amused. "You really are cursed."

" _You're_ de one who has to live here," Gambit informed him. "So what do you call yourself?"

The boy frowned.

"You can tell me," Gambit said. "I promise I won't put no hoodoo hex on you or nothin'."

The boy just looked at him with confusion. "I do not understand your words."

"You and everyone else."

"I am Achmed," the boy said.

"Pleasure bein' your prisoner, Achmed," Gambit said. "How far 'til we get where we're goin'?"

"A day's travel," Achmed replied.

"I guess we got time for a singalong," Gambit said, thinking of Jean and their car ride. "You know _A Horse With No Name?_ "

Achmed shook his head.

"Okay, you do de ' _la las'_ and I'll supply de rest. Here goes. _Oh, I been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain..._ "

"You are a strange person. Why do you sing? You are a prisoner tied to a mule."

"Things could be worse," Gambit told him.

Achmed frowned. "For you, I think things will become much worse."

"You're a real kill-joy, y'know that kid?" Gambit said.

The boy shook his head again, failing to understand or simply irritated with his prisoner. He turned away, no longer interested in entertaining Gambit's inquiries. Gambit kept up his pace with the mule and the band of travelers. He was no longer dying of thirst and thankfully not being pummeled by a random storm. Keeping in motion had a rejuvenating effect on his body but made his mind restless. The barren landscape offered nothing interesting and no respite from his leaping thoughts.

Gambit tried to think of some alternative life for the young boy walking alongside the mule. What was it that nine-year-old boys did, anyway? Gambit tried to think back on his childhood but came up with little. Probably a boy would go to school. Perhaps he might play sports of some kind, but Gambit didn't know if boys that age played soccer or baseball or what. Gambit recalled climbing Live Oak trees in the park, scaling the sides of buildings, splashing around in fountains. He thought of rummaging through waste bins, picking pockets, and shoplifting candy. He remembered avoiding speeding cars, and gangs, and stray dogs, and people who might otherwise seem nice but gave you a weird nervous feeling in your stomach. Mostly, he remembered the freedom of no one telling him what he could and couldn't eat, or wear, or do and pitying those kids who had to keep their clothes clean and be rounded up and held captive in schoolyards. Gambit wondered what would be best for Achmed. What kind of life could be had for an orphan boy in a war-torn country? He seemed a smart enough kid. He spoke English quite well, though in a strangely formal way that reminded Gambit of Storm.

As the day progressed, the party continued on without breaking. Some men ate and drank in their saddles and at least one of them smoked. Gambit and Achmed walked. Gambit was bored, bored, bored of being a prisoner tied to a mule. He was contemplating what he could do to make things more interesting when they began to climb a slight incline. Gambit became hopeful that he might see something new once they reached the summit. When they neared the crest of the incline, Gambit picked up his pace a bit. The travelers were rewarded with the sight of yet more desert, but there in the distance was a rocky outcropping and beyond that, the city of Damascus. Gambit's first impression was that the city was very beige and also very flat and smaller than what he had imagined. He squinted through the haze at the city. He was close enough to civilization that he contemplated making a break for it. However, his captors had rifles and he could only run so far over a flat expanse of land.

Gambit hoped there was some branch of the Thieves' Guild in the city. He needed a passport and transportation back to the States immediately. Most importantly, he needed to make a phone call and contact Wolverine. He needed to let the X-Men know that Jean was alive, something he should have done from the start. They had to protect her before Sinister got to her first.

The band of travelers started down the hill and made their way to the rocky outcropping. Gambit watched where he put his feet, stepping carefully over rocks and stones as the terrain grew more rugged. They seemed to not be going towards the city.

"Hey, I thought we were goin' to de city," Gambit called to his young guide.

"No. I told you we were going to the Englishman," Achmed corrected.

"What's he doin' way out here?" Gambit asked. "Who does he think he is, Lawrence of Arabia?"

The boy turned and gave him an odd look. "Do you know _ʾAmīr_ Lawrence?" he asked.

"'Course I do," Gambit replied. "Peter O'Toole. Great movie."

The boy continued to eye him warily. "You make no sense."

"What're you doin' with dis Englishman, anyway?"

"He is our patron," the boy explained. "We bring him what we...find."

"So you all do de stealin' and whatnot and then turn it over t'him," Gambit stated.

"That is so," Achmed said, after a long pause.

"In exchange for what?"

Achmed looked away. "He has taught me English," the boy said hesitantly. "He has told me I can be more. That I should be a leader of men."

"Do you hear that?" Gambit asked.

"What am I to be hearing?" Achmed asked.

"De warning bells going off in your brain," Gambit responded.

"I tell you, I have little choice," Achmed told him.

"Is that what you tell yourself, too?" Gambit asked.

"Be silent, Whisperer," Achmed said, not for the first time.

"Why you keep callin' me that?" Gambit asked.

"Because the _shayātīn_ whisper lies into the hearts of men and women," Achmed said.

"I tell you, I ain't a devil," Gambit told him. "And I'd prefer you call me 'Remy,' instead."

The boy frowned. "You have a Frenchman's name," he said. "Better to call you 'devil.'"

"You got a problem wit' French folks?"

"They dropped bombs upon my city and murdered my parents in their home. It was they who created _al-Hariqa_ ," Achmed said.

Gambit tried to conjure up any recent events about the war, but he hadn't been paying any attention for the longest time. "I didn't think they were even in de war," Gambit said, somewhat confused.

By now they were upon the rocks and in the shadow of the outcropping. The rocks gave way to furrows in the hills, creating caves and hidden passes. Gambit walked behind the mule now, wary of its back-end.

"How do you know of _ʾAmīr_ Lawrence and not of the French and their treachery?" Achmed asked, leading the mule through a narrow gap between two rocks. "Of the treaty they signed dividing up our lands between the British and the Russians?"

"I – what?" Gambit asked, his footsteps faltering. "But Lawrence is a – a historical figure an' – I... Oh. Dis is bad."

"We will continue onward," Achmed told him. "We are not far now."

"Wait, Achmed," Gambit said with a sick realization dawning on him. "What year is dis?"

"I beg your pardon?" the boy asked.

" _When_ am I?" Gambit asked.

"Did you suffer a blow to the head, or perhaps from some mental illness?" Achmed asked him. "The Englishman is a man of science. He will know what is the matter with you."

Gambit came to a dead halt. "Oh, no –," Gambit said and suddenly the curved knife he had lifted from the guard the night previous appeared in his hand. He quickly drew it through the rope binding him to the mule, then freed his wrists.

"Aie!" Achmed shouted, seeing Gambit pull the last of his bindings free. Achmed alerted the other men with a cry. "He escapes!"

"Thanks a lot, kid!" Gambit snapped before turning to run down the path they had just climbed. "I thought you and me had a _rapport_!"

Gambit didn't turn as he heard the shouts behind him. The men were struggling to turn their mounts in the narrow path between rocks. Gambit put a bit of distance between himself and the men before they left their animals behind and began to follow him on foot. Gambit skidded on some gravel and turned around a switchback in the path. He moved to dart forward but was suddenly brought up short by the sight of a man dressed in white standing in the center of the path. The man was tall and clad in Bedouin garb, the lower half of his face concealed behind a mask of loose fabric. Gambit's feet slid out from under him, and with a spray of sand and grit, he landed on his backside. He turned, scrambling to his hands and feet, but before he could dash away, a hand claimed the back of his coat.

"Hurk!" Gambit said as he was pulled backwards, like a cat caught by the scruff of its neck. He was thrown against a boulder and pinned by his opponent's forearm pressing hard against his throat. Gambit found himself looking into dark eyes. The eyes studied him, as if he were a very interesting insect.

Gambit still held the blade in his fist. With a quick jerk of his arm he drew the curved tip of the blade under the man's bicep, hoping to injure him badly enough to gain his freedom, but not so badly as to kill the man. The man's grip on him did not falter. He glanced down at the knife in Gambit's hand. Gambit readied the weapon again, but with inhuman swiftness, he found his wrist smashed against the rock, causing him to drop the knife as he spasmed in pain. The man did not bleed, though Gambit had felt the knife slide through fabric and flesh. With a jolt of fear he looked up into the masked face.

"LeBeau," the man said. His tone bore no inflection of emotion, but only a slight British accent. "We meet again."

"Ah, crud," Gambit said.

~ oOo ~

Gambit found himself inside a cave, held in a primitive cell and manacled to the stone walls by chains that had likely been around during The Inquisition. In a situation such as this (which he unfortunately seemed to find himself in more often than he would care to admit), Gambit would typically take stock of his surroundings and parse out any opportunities for escape. It only took a few seconds to understand his situation, to feel the cold numbing sensation of dread spread from his gut outwards. To closely study the workings of this place would be to go insane. Strangely enough, the cave seemed to be odorless, despite the desiccated and mutilated human corpses stacked like kindling along the walls.

"It is the arid climate that aids my work," Sinister explained, though Gambit had not asked. "I preserve the bodies using sand and heat...for further study."

"What in blue blazes are _you_ doin' here?" Gambit asked. He was seated with his back against the stone wall, his arms held in place above him. The soft glow from a nearby torch illuminated little of their surroundings and for that, Gambit was grateful.

Sinister smiled grimly. "War and calamity bring a number of opportunities," Sinister replied. He remained dressed in his appropriated garments, appearing for all the world comfortable in this newly assumed identity of desert dweller. "Disappearances and untimely deaths...tend to go unnoticed in times like these."

Gambit stared at the man, his face expressionless. His stomach roiled with a mixture of fear and pure hatred.

"I work unencumbered, aided in part by my little band of – marauders," Sinister told him as he slowly approached the rusting bars of Gambit's cell. "I am curious, as well. What is it that brings you to this region, my young friend?"

"You did," Gambit responded. "You brought me here."

Sinister raised a brow and it was clear to Gambit that the expression was carefully orchestrated, as if the man had become unused to relaying emotion. "Did I? I admit, I detected your heartfelt plea for assistance," Sinister said and touched a forefinger to his temple. "But it wasn't your mental distress that drew my attention. How is it that you have appeared here in this time? I had thought when I restored your abilities,*** tenuous as they were, you would have since destroyed yourself."

"Looks like you thought wrong," Gambit told him.

"And yet, if you were in possession of your full abilities, you would easily be able to gain your freedom," Sinister said.

"I could do that without my powers, thanks very much," Gambit replied.

"But here you remain," Sinister said. "Perhaps you find yourself with few options."

"That's pretty much par for de course," Gambit said.

"Always quick with a _bon mot_ , LeBeau," Sinister said.

"When you put my head back together you knew I'd burn out, enh?" Gambit asked.

"The sample you provided me gave very specific instructions," Sinister replied. "You would never gain full control over your abilities. You are far too damaged. The repair was a temporary reconnection."

"Yeah, I been offline a while. But your future-self seemed to be able to hot wire my head and jump me to – where I am now," Gambit said.

"To what purpose?" Sinister asked.

"I'll tell you if you unchain me," Gambit said and flapped one of his wrists where it was pinned to the wall.

Sinister continued to smile his coldly benevolent smile. "Very well," he said. He produced a key from his robes and unlocked the cell door with a dry 'clack.' The door swung inward and Sinister stepped into the cell, treading upon the straw strewn on the floor. Gambit shrank back as Sinister leaned over him. Sinister took one of Gambit's wrists and released it from the manacle. Sinister then stepped back.

"You missed a spot," Gambit said, waving his opposite hand which was still shackled.

"I miss nothing," Sinister said. "Why are you here, LeBeau?"

Gambit frowned. "Because your future-self is nuttier than squirrel turds," Gambit informed him. "I feel a little – I dunno... _happy_ – when I tell you, in de future, you have gone completely 'round de bend. Certifiably insane."

Sinister put a hand to his own face and stroked his jaw, considering Gambit for a few moments. "Is that so? I wonder how that came to be?"

"Other hand, please," Gambit said, pointing with his free hand to the one still chained to the wall.

Sinister reached out to take Gambit's wrist, unlatching the manacle with his other hand. Even when Gambit's wrist was freed, Sinister failed to release Gambit's hand. "And why would my insane future-self send you here to me?"

"Oh, he wants me to destroy whatever it is you're working on now," Gambit said, trying to pull his hand free of Sinister's grip.

Sinister's hand tightened and Gambit's eyes squinted in pain. "Ow."

"Why would I plot against myself?" Sinister asked.

"I tole you, you're plumb _loco_ ," Gambit said and yanked his arm from Sinister's grip. He rubbed his bruised hand, but it was the sensation of Sinister's touch that truly irritated him.

"You will tell me the complete truth," Sinister said, looming over Gambit threateningly.

"I might. If I get somethin' out of it," Gambit said.

"I will suffer you to live," Sinister informed him. "Perhaps you might even survive...intact."

"Your past-self is _so_ gracious," Gambit said. "Bein' surrounded by de ravages of de First World War does wonders for your generosity."

Sinister's eyes narrowed slightly. He had since dispensed with his human appearance and was now the pale-faced, red-eyed monster Gambit knew him to be. "It has thus far been dubbed 'The Great War,'" Sinister said. "Shall I anticipate a Second World War in the making?"

"Oh, sure," Gambit said. "You of all people _would_ enjoy that sort of thing. But don't get too excited. Your hometown takes quite a pummeling."

"Scientific pursuit transcends a sense of nationalism," Sinister said.

"Really now?" Gambit said. "'Cause you in de future struck me as a real patriot. I think he might go rabid if he couldn't find loose-leaf tea."

"I grow weary of your taunting remarks," Sinister told him.

"So take a nap," Gambit replied.

"I find my mind to be at its clearest when I work," Sinister said and stepped back. He turned and stepped through the open cell door, then closed the door as he exited. "I wonder that you will offer much useful commentary while I attend to the newest subjects my Marauders have brought to me?"

Gambit stood and walked to the cell door, wrapping his hands around the bars. He cast a quick and wary glance at the dead bodies on the ground, piled in the other empty cells. "And deny me the pleasure of your sparkling conversation?" Gambit asked as Sinister began to turn away. "Hey. Come back. I'll tell you more about de future. I can tell you who wins de World Series. What stocks to invest in."

When Sinister failed to respond, Gambit let his hands begin to glow. He pushed the charge through the metal bars. "Don't you walk away, monster. You t'ink dese bars'll keep me put, you'd better think –."

Gambit found himself pulled tight against the bars, held in place by a hand knotted in his hair. He quickly released the charge harmlessly. His face, pressed to the cage door, was inches away from Sinister's own. Sinister's expression was an impassive mask. "You do not threaten me," Sinister told him an instant before Gambit felt something fiercely cold pinch his neck.

As Gambit felt his muscles fail him, he saw the syringe in Sinister's hand. Gambit collapsed to the floor, unable to speak. His spine curved into a rigid arc, his hands curled into fists. He gasped as the tendons in his neck grew painfully tight, his eyes widened against his own volition.

"I will consider what I will do with you, LeBeau," Sinister told him. He paused and watched Gambit struggle, fighting against the poison Sinister had injected into his veins.

Gambit's brain railed at Sinister, throwing out every curse he could think of in several languages. Sinister must have heard him, because in a moment of near-humanness, the man gave a short, dry chuckle while briefly shaking his head in admonition. Then Sinister turned away, leaving Gambit alone with the dead.

Gambit had learned, to his regret, that Sinister was less of a surgeon and more of a butcher, piecing out human parts like so much meat. He appraised human beings in terms of the value they might bring him, either as genetic specimens or as servants. Gambit knew which side he fell on in Sinister's value scale; it wasn't his genes that Sinister wanted. As much as Gambit wanted to turn a deaf ear and blind eye to the sounds and sights of suffering near him, he knew the moment he did that was the moment he stopped being a human being. He endured screams of terror and agony, pleas for mercy, ratting coughs and dying breaths. It was unfortunately all too familiar. Gambit struggled to right himself, but like a turtle trapped on its back, his limbs were helpless. He wanted to scream against the futility he felt, but his voice was nothing more than a rasp of air through a tightened throat. As he exhausted himself he continued to fight against his paralysis. He couldn't simply lay there and do nothing. At long last, he managed to turn his head. In the leaping shadows on the cave walls, he spotted a dark silhouette that bore more substance than the other dark shapes. It was the boy. Gambit could see the orange flames reflected in the whiteness of his wide eyes.

When a tortured scream pierced the dusty stillness of the cave, the boy flinched. Slowly, the boy approached and then knelt outside the cell door near Gambit's head. Gambit saw the boy had a blade in his shaking hand.

"I should kill you now, Whisperer," the boy said quietly. "It would be the merciful thing for you."

Gambit's fingers twitched as he tested his mobility. His jaw worked and he drew a breath. "Achmed," he hissed out. " _El Gibar_."

The boy startled. "How – how do you know my name?"

"I know. Your future," Gambit gasped, a startled flash of realization as he learned his suspicions were correct. He knew the boy's identity because he had seen him as the aged man he would become, many, many years in the future. "You don't. Belong. Here."

The boy seemed to regard Gambit's words as portentous, for he began to shake in fear while remaining rooted to the spot. "You _are_ a _j_ _innī._ "

"De longer – you stay here. The less human – you'll be. Get...out. Get out – of dis place," Gambit said haltingly.

Achmed managed to shake his head. "I don't – I don't have anywhere... there is no one..."

"Shut up!" Gambit said and managed to raise his head and shoulders from the floor before falling back. "You – listen – t'me! You stay – with that monster...it's your – parents' deaths on your – hands!"

"What? No! I –!"

"Everything they made you – t'be – the person they brought up...will be gone. You'll have killed even the memory – of who they were," Gambit told him. "D'you _understand_ me – now, _petit_?"

The boy began to cry as he sat on his hands and knees, the blade in his hand now forgotten. "But I am – all – alone," he wept.

"D'you think – you're de only poor boy – t'have lost his parents? There are...two-dozen more just like you – within de first few yards of those city walls! Go...and find them!" Gambit managed to turn himself and grasp hold of one of the bars. He struggled to pull himself upright. The boy turned his tear-streaked face to Gambit. His mouth was a deep line grooved in misery. Achmed stood and reached for his belt. He freed a pair of lock picks and began to work on the cell door.

"There isn't...time for that," Gambit told him, but within moments, Achmed had the door open. "Get – out of here."

Achmed crouched and pulled at Gambit's arm. "Get up," he hissed. "Get up, we can flee together."

Gambit saw that he was not going to be able to convince the boy to leave on his own. Gambit reached out and picked up the forgotten knife. With renewed purpose, Gambit struggled upright, then used the bars to leverage himself into standing position. His knees quaked. He managed a few shaking steps to the opposite wall of the cavern as the boy flitted ahead like a frightened bird.

"You have to hurry... _hurry_ ," he whispered.

Gambit nodded wearily and began the slow trek forward. The boy lead him from the cave full of corpses to another passageway. The screams were louder here and Gambit faltered. Achmed had dashed away from the source of the sound and started off in the opposite direction. He beckoned to Gambit with a flapping hand. "This way!" Achmed mouthed.

Gambit looked in the direction where he knew Sinister was even now performing some obscene experiment. He summoned the charge, testing the reflex that would trigger his powers. He wondered if he could push enough into the walls to bring them crashing down on Sinister and his "works." Gambit applied both palms to the wall and searched for the strength to charge the rock. He felt himself begin to sag and Achmed darted forward. The boy fitfully tugged on Gambit's coat.

"Please, Remy," the boy begged.

Gambit released the wall and fell against it. "Okay, _petit_ ," he said. "I follow."

The boy skipped ahead and Gambit turned to follow after him. By the time they reached the next turn in the tunnel, Gambit was winded. He had to keep moving. If he stopped again, his strength would fail him. Gambit panted, charging forward from one rocky support to the next. All the time, he could see the boy darting to the next turn, then rushing back to see if Gambit had progressed. Gambit envied him his seemingly endless energy. In the next turning, Gambit felt the hint of cool, fresh air on his face. He drank in lungfuls gratefully, as if he had been nearly asphyxiated by the stink of death. Up ahead, Gambit could see the blue-black sky and the boy's lithe shape standing in the open space. Gambit started forward, no longer needing the support of the walls. Once the exit was spotted, he felt a sudden rush of exhilaration. He met up with Achmed at the cave exit. Beyond was a small apron of rocky dirt. The five marauders were gathered around a small fire. Beyond them were their mounts, standing idly in their harnesses or chewing their cud.

_Now what_?Gambit thought when the boy suddenly crouched and scooped up a stone. He had it in a sling and a moment later it was flying towards the head of the nearest marauder. The rock struck true and the man fell forward with a short cry to land in the small campfire.

The remaining thieves turned towards the cave exit to see Gambit standing there. Gambit looked down at Achmed who was staring up at him looking for more guidance. Gambit held out his hand. "Rock, please," he said with resignation as the marauders leapt to their feet with cries of alarm.

Achmed tucked two stones into Gambit's outstretched hand. Gambit transferred one to his opposite palm, then flung out both arms to release the stones in two different directions. The stones carried a small charge and when they struck their opponents, the resulting explosion was enough to knock them from their feet. Gambit raced, or rather _fell gracefully_ forward, using his momentum to duck under the raised rifle one of the marauders carried. Gambit's shoulder connected to the man's gut and they both fell to the ground. The rifle fired harmlessly into the air with a sharp crack. The horses startled and raised up on their hind legs with shrill cries of fright. Gambit had an instant to pull back before one of the flying hooves could connect to his skull. The marauder fared far worse and was trampled. Gambit heard a cry and turned to see Achmed held tightly by the leader. The marauder was raising his rifle to club the boy in the skull. Gambit released the blade he was holding, sending it spinning at the thief. It connected with a wet thud in the man's midriff and he gasped. Achmed tore himself away as the man pitched forward. Gambit staggered to his knees. One man still screamed as his robes had caught ablaze. Gambit reached for the fallen rifle and brought it down hard upon the man's head, silencing him. For several moments, he sat on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The horses still whinnied and the camels balked. Achmed's feet appeared in Gambit's line of vision and suddenly the boy was crouching beside him.

"Come, come!" Achmed panted, tugging at Gambit's shoulders. Gambit nodded and sat up on his knees. He put one hand to Achmed's narrow shoulder and the boy struggled under Gambit's weight. Gambit got one leg and then the other underneath him and stood. Achmed dashed away leaving Gambit wavering on his feet like a KO'ed prize fighter. Moments later, Achmed was back, leading the mule by his bridle. The mule's eyes rolled and it tried to toss its head, taking Achmed off his feet for a moment. Gambit reached out and claimed the animal's reins, then pulled it forward and wrapped a hand around its muzzle. Gambit leaned into the animal's neck and spoke calming words. The mule shuffled and became still, breathing hard through its nostrils. Achmed climbed upon the animal's back and Gambit handed him the reins.

Achmed reached out and grasped his forearm. "Hurry, climb on," he told Gambit.

Gambit shook his head, leaning hard against the mule's side. "You have t'go, _petit_."

"No!" Achmed said, his voice breaking. "I can't do it alone!"

Gambit nodded. "Yes, yes you can. Be strong. You can do it. You _will_ be a leader. I know it. You'll take in de others...teach 'em what you know. Go – go to Damascus. Then to Cairo. There will be others like you there."

"Please, Remy! Be my teacher. Come with me!"

Gambit looked up at the boy and considered him for several moments. Gambit thought of the possibility that he _could_ stay...to take on the boy as an apprentice, show him what he knew. Gambit envisioned a life here in the past where no one knew him, where he could start again with a new identity. For a moment, he felt curiously unburdened. The sins of his own past had yet to be committed, he had yet to be even born. If he were to stay, he would likely die before he ever lived. Or...if he was lived long enough, he might see Storm as a young girl again. When someday Achmed El Gibar would find Ororo Munroe as an orphan on the streets of Cairo and take her into his little cadre of street urchins. Gambit felt for a moment that he was free. He might have smiled. It was a pleasant fantasy.

Gambit stepped back and took the mule by its bridle. He turned it towards the small pathway between rocks. Gambit lead it to the trailhead, then released the bridle, clucking to the mule as he did. The mule trotted past, eager to be away from the smell of blood. Achmed turned in his saddle, looking back at Gambit.

"Remy!" he called, but Gambit raised a hand and slapped the animal on its flank. The mule started with a snort and trotted sure-footedly down the path. Gambit could see Achmed's eyes pleading with him. Then Achmed started with a gasp, seeing something over Gambit's shoulder.

"Run, _petit_ ," Gambit called after the boy. Achmed leaned forward in the saddle and kicked the mule with his heels. Then he was gone.

Gambit turned to face the cave entrance. His entire body was trembling with exertion. Sinister stood in the opening, his eyes glowing dully red in the darkness.

"That boy was of some use to me," Sinister told him. "Talented. Malleable."

"Frightened. Desperate," Gambit added. "Your usual type of victim."

"You will repay what you have stolen from me, LeBeau," Sinister informed him.

"Maybe you and me can come to some kinda agreement," Gambit said.

Sinister smiled grimly. "I would consider what you have to offer." He looked around at his fallen marauders. "Perhaps my Marauders could use stronger leadership?"

Gambit's blood chilled. "I don't t'ink so."

"If you have no intention of offering me your service, then I am afraid I have no use for you," Sinister said.

"You've got it backwards," Gambit said. "It's _you_ that should be tryin' t'help _me_."

"I fail to see how I could benefit from such an agreement."

Gambit raised a finger. "Wait for it...," he said. Sinister gave him an inquisitive look. Then an instant later came a muffled explosion from the inside of the cave. Sinister cast a glance back over his shoulder as a cloud of dust and debris filtered from inside the cavern's depths.

"What did you –?" Sinister began, turning his ire onto Gambit.

"Now hold your horses," Gambit told him. "I wouldn't want you t'break my concentration. I might slip, lose control, and then what?"

Sinister glowered at him, his eyes full of murderous intent. "Then what?" he prompted.

"Well, I might just fulfill all that your future-self hoped and then some. That was a time-delayed charge. How many more did I leave behind? You want to keep on keepin' on with your freakish experiments? Well, I suggest you give me some incentive for _not_ blowing de rest of this here cave to kingdom come."

Sinister took a step forward and Gambit raised his hands. "Easy now. I'm brain-damaged, don't y'know. Too bad _someone_ didn't have de skills to set me right. I guess I should've gone to Doctor Pym or some such – y'know...a _real_ surgeon. Instead of some snake-oil salesman hack."

"I may be of the mindset that killing you now will give me enough pleasure to offset any setbacks you might cause me," Sinister said through tightened lips.

"Let me sweeten de pot, Essex," Gambit said conversationally. "In exchange for you helpin' me out, I'll give you a few words of advice – straight from de future."

Sinister's eyes narrowed. "And why would you do that, LeBeau?"

"On account of I know you ain't gonna listen to me anyway," Gambit said. "But I'll tell you straight up, unless you want to meet an untimely death and be replaced by a pompous dandy in Spanx, I suggest you avoid any and all redheads. If you know what's good for you."

"I shall take it under advisement."

"Now, about that kick-start back home...," Gambit began.

Sinister considered Gambit a moment. "I postulate that certain portions of your brain were stimulated by a telekinetic pulse. Reestablishing the severed connections between the parietal and frontal lobes, giving you temporary access to your powers."

"Sure, when you say them big fancy words it sounds promising," Gambit said. "So you can make them connections and send me back, er – forward?"

"I could...," Sinister began.

"You better work fast, I feel a sneeze comin' on. All this dust and all. Plus de camels." He sniffed and rubbed his sleeve against his nose.

Sinister strode forward to stand before Gambit. It was all Gambit could do not to hastily back away, but to stand his ground. "I have all the time in the world to find you, LeBeau. When I do, I will _own_ you, body and soul. You will not know yourself when I tear your world apart."

Gambit felt his heart hammer in his chest, but he remained stationary. "I'll let that charge go... it'll fizzle out and you can just go about your business, Essex. Alls you gotta do is just pop me back where I belong."

Sinister's hands came to rest upon Gambit's shoulders. "You were damaged long before you reached the maturation of your powers, LeBeau. Perhaps your mother attempted to smother you as an infant."

"Really? You're going to make cracks about my momma?" Gambit asked.

Sinister's hands tightened their grip. "Goodbye, LeBeau. For now."

"You always gotta go out on – _aauugh_!" Gambit cried as he was suddenly engulfed in bright white light.

"You will defuse the charge, LeBeau," Sinister commanded.

Gambit's vision was a swirl of bright ribbons of light, each leading off in different directions. He was astounded at their beauty. There was so much potential, so many possibilities. He wanted to look at them forever.

"LeBeau!" Sinister shouted.

Gambit's hand drifted forward, reaching for a stream of light. This one pulled at him harder than the rest. What he glimpsed there, he wanted more than anything. Gambit imagined himself twining the ribbon through his fingers, though it was a less tangible experience than that. The future ribbon was still a thing of potential, not made live with a charge or current. He began to channel a charge through the ribbon, felt it take hold and become more substantial.

He was still baffled by the wonder of it, the magic feeling coursing through him when Gambit spoke: "There was no charge. I didn't have de strength to set that big of a bang."

Gambit could feel Sinister's surprise like a physical blow, then his rage. But then Gambit pulled the charge into himself, rather than push it away. The pressure Sinister placed on his shoulders vanished and then Gambit was falling forward. He gasped, his arms limbs seeking out contact, bracing himself for impact though he did not know which way was up or down. Then gravity claimed him and he was falling through darkness. He felt dozens of clawed hands clutching at him, scraping and tearing at his skin and clothes. Gambit fought back, but then something struck him in the chest and the air whooshed from his lungs. He was falling backwards through space when he struck the earth, sending up a burst of damp leaf litter. Gambit groaned, looking up at a starry sky. What he had thought were hands were in fact tree limbs. He stared dazedly upwards as large white flakes began to fall around him. His eyes fluttered closed as the flakes settled onto his face. Gambit thought it was strange that the snow was not cold, and stranger still was that it smelled sweet. As exhaustion settled on him, he realized that it was not snow at all, but blossoms from a cherry tree. It was finally spring.

* * *

*Happened in the three-part mini, Hellbound.

**X-Men #33, forever ago.

***Gambit's first ongoing solo #12-13 when Sinister restored Gambit's full and uncontrollable abilities, because I guess Gambit was carrying around his own brain sample in a vial...? Don't look at me like that. I didn't write it. This happened when Gambit met Sinister in late 1800s England in his first solo title, which explains why Sinister knows him now in the early 1900s.

Achmed El Gibar was one of the most skilled thieves in Egypt and leader of the street urchins. Achmed was mostly known for taking in Storm after she lost her parents, and training her in the arts of thievery and hand to hand combat. He died several years after Storm joined the X-Men in X-Men Unlimited #7 starring Storm, Jean, and Gambit (and probably one of my most favorite issues ever).

Next time: Young Remy's escape attempt number 3,592.


	40. Time to Lose

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

Remy rose slowly out of delirium, the cobwebs of half-remembered dreams still clinging to his brain as he regained consciousness. His eyes blinked open and cast about, seeking out something familiar. He had thought for a time that Tante Mattie had been at his side, holding fast to his hand and offering him words of comfort. Remy could see now that it must have been a dream. He was alone. There was something stuck to his cheek. He moved to raise his left hand but found it brought up short. Remy glanced down from where he lay propped up on some pillows and saw that his wrist was restrained to the bed rails. Both hands flew upwards in a sudden surge of panic. Remy accidentally struck himself in the face with his right hand, which was not restrained.

"Ow," he said, rubbing his cheek with his palm. He found there was a tube taped to his cheek. Remy let his fingers follow the tube. The tube led into his nose. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled. Remy gagged, realizing the tube went down his throat, but continued to pull. He felt as if he had been pulling for some time when he finally freed the tube from his nose. He struggled not to vomit and then sneezed several times. "Ughn...," he moaned and tossed the tube aside.

Remy freed his left wrist from the restraint, then untaped and pulled the needle from his arm. There was some kind of plastic device on the end of his finger, and he pulled that off too. The machines that had been quietly beeping to themselves suddenly let out an alarm.

"No!" Remy gasped and suddenly there was a fizzle and a pop as the machine exploded in several short bursts. Remy stared at the now smoking machine, wondering what on earth had caused it to explode. He rubbed his aching eyes with the heels of his hands. He pushed down the sheet and found, to his horror, that he had been catheterized as well. Remy steeled himself for what he had to do next.

It was several long moments later that he was able to climb from the bed with a pained whimper. Remy stood, feeling as weak as a kitten, and wandered towards a nearby sink. His backside felt cold and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the back of his hospital gown was open. He clutched it closed with one hand and proceeded to the sink. He could see his reflection in the shiny paper towel holder mounted on the wall. His ear had been bandaged. Remy reached up and tugged at the gauze wrapped around his head.

"If anyone cut my hair, there'll be hell t'pay," he told himself. He pulled the bandages off and found that he had an incision behind his ear on the back of his neck. His hair had indeed been shaved around the site of the incision, but he was able to comb his lanky locks over the injury. Remy scowled at his reflection. He rinsed his mouth and face with water from the tap then walked to a nearby cabinet, hoping to find clothing. He found a pile of sheets and some blankets. Remy picked one up and scrubbed his face dry with it. He looked around the small hospital room, hoping to find a solution to his lack of clothing. He saw there was something on the small rolling table by the bed. When he stood before the table, Remy saw that the object was his pocket watch. His hand closed down on the watch and he held it to his good ear to hear it's reassuring ticking. Unfortunately, there was no sign of his coat.

Remy approached the swinging double doors and peered through one of the windows. He could see little in the room beyond. Cautiously, he pushed the door open and stuck his head through the opening. He saw that he was surrounded by a plastic tent. Remy slipped into the tent, now able to see that he was back in the infirmary area where he had first encountered Doctor McCoy. The room was currently empty, but Remy could see that the adjacent room behind the glass was occupied. Doctor McCoy was inside, his back to Remy. The four boys Remy had met in the cafeteria were inside the room as well. Doctor McCoy seemed to be arguing with his younger self. The young Bobby was egging young McCoy on and the angel boy was staring into space with vapid disinterest. It was hard to know what Scott was looking at. With his hand clutching the opening in his gown closed, Remy crept forward. He kept low, hoping to stay out of sight. Remy glanced up at the window as he passed. A red-visored gaze met his through the glass. Remy froze, his eyes growing wide. Scott's mouth opened slightly. Remy shook his head fervently and then put his finger to his lips, begging for Scott's silence. Scott looked confused, but slowly closed his lips. Remy let out a breath and hurried from the room.

He padded down an empty corridor on bare feet. Remy came to the elevator and the adjacent stairwell. He saw that the elevator was in motion, so he took the stairs. Remy climbed up the first flight and came to a door. Remy listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he pushed the door open and looked down another hallway. It appeared to be one of the school corridors. Remy thought he'd heard that kids had nightmares about showing up to school with no pants. Apparently that nightmare was his reality (though his nightmares didn't involve nudity but featured him showing up for a job wearing DayGlo orange).

Remy started slowly down the hall, passing classrooms occupied with classes of a half-dozen or so students. He dashed past each door, hoping not to be spotted. When he reached the end of the corridor, he peered right and left. Every window was inside one of the classrooms. Remy started down the left hallway where it seemed the classrooms were empty. As he made his way to the first empty room, an alarm sounded. Remy jolted and gasped, then cast about for the source of the sound. Students began to pour from the rooms all along the corridor he had just left. Remy dashed forward to the first unmarked door. He pulled it open and sealed himself inside. _Did I trigger an alarm?_ he wondered. Remy found himself inside of a storage closet. It was full of paper and pencils and pens and books and nothing of any use to him. He heard muffled voices through the door. The students did not seem to be in any sort of hurry, nor did there seem to be any kind of emergency. After a few minutes, the alarm rang again. Gradually, the sounds of voices and footsteps faded away as one by one, the classroom doors closed. Remy realized the alarm bell he had heard was a signal to change classes. He exhaled with relief.

He stole from the storage closet and continued down the hall. Remy came to yet another turning. Strangely enough, one end of the hallway was coated in ice and a cold wind blew in his face. As he passed the boys' and girls' lavatory, a sudden burst of steam erupted from the doors, setting them swinging. _What the hell?_ Remy thought. He hurried forward when suddenly, the floor opened up before him like a booby trap. Remy's arms pinwheeled as he hastily stepped backwards to avoid the pit.

"Please provide your hall pass," intoned a bodiless voice. Remy ducked as a mallet swung down from the ceiling with the intent of knocking him into the pit. Apparently, the house was trying to kill any random students wandering the halls between classes. It wasn't unlike the obstacle courses and mazes he was forced to run as an apprentice thief, down in the dank tunnels where the Guild held their trials and ceremonies. Remy glanced down into the pit which was dark and smelled like wet earth. So it was somewhat like the Guild trials, but without the alligators, magical illusions, and the zombies. At least Remy hoped there were no zombies.

Remy skirted the pit and sidled along the narrow edge between it and the wall. Once on the other side, the pit sealed itself, resuming its innocuous appearance. Remy looked about warily, searching for other hidden dangers. In the next hall he encountered a pair of bright yellow canvas carts. As he approached, he saw that the carts were full of dirty laundry. Perhaps he was about to have a bit of luck after all. He could have some clothes, even if they were dirty. Remy heard the murmur of voices coming closer. He searched about for another hiding place, but found none. He clambered into one of the carts, then lay down while pulling the dirty laundry over himself.

" – find him?" said a voice.

"In all likelihood, he is hiding," responded the second speaker who Remy recognized as Storm.

"That's stupid. Why wouldn't he just come here for help?" said the first speaker, who was Bobby.

"It seems he may have drawn the attention of the authorities, and now he is widely believed to be dead," Storm said, her voice more easily heard as she grew nearer. "Perhaps he prefers to maintain that illusion and the anonymity it affords him."

"Yeah, but if Jean is with him –," Bobby began.

"We do not know if the woman in the video is indeed Jean," Storm interrupted.

"But Ororo, why would he go out of his way to protect her if she wasn't?"

"He has reasons to be sympathetic towards a clone," Storm told him. "Of anyone, he was able to get closest to Laura. But he would be just as likely to protect any woman with a pretty face."

"Well, yeah, I guess I see your point."

The pair had passed Remy's hiding spot. Remy held his breath out of fear of discovery (also someone's overripe gym socks were near to his face).

"But still, there's some hope," Bobby continued. "Do you have any idea where he could have gone, where he might have taken her?"

"I doubt he has left the country, at least not while his likeness has gained national media attention," Storm said. "And I have given Rogue every alias of his I knew, should he make any bank transactions. Though I am sure he would have access to cash at any number of the safe houses nearby."

"So we don't really have much of a chance to find him," Bobby said as the pair moved further down the hall.

"I have confidence that he will resurface...eventually. In all likelihood, when we least expect it," Storm said.

"But the clone – or – whoever she is –," Bobby began.

"I trust he will take care of her well," Storm added.

There came a sound of loud footsteps from behind Remy. The two adults paused and turned. "Oh, hey Jo," Bobby called.

"Shut it, Bobby," Joanna responded.

"Yes, it _is_ lovely weather we're having, isn't it? Spring has sprung!"

"Move out of the way," Joanna said and suddenly, Remy felt the cart began to move. It banged into the other cart before being wheeled into the hall.

"Keep up the good work!" Bobby added.

"We'll see how chipper you are when it's _your_ day to do laundry!" Joanna told him.

Remy found himself being trundled down the corridor. Occasionally, he would be banged into walls. There was a shudder as the cart was pushed through a doorway. He and the cart were shoved across the room, rolling smoothly and quickly across linoleum floors to crash into the opposite wall. The door swung shut again and Remy was left with the sound of humming washers and dryers. He emerged from the dirty clothing to find himself in a bright laundry room. The walls were lined with industrial washers and dryers. In the center was a long counter for folding and ironing clothes. Remy climbed out of the cart, his feet coming down on the smooth white floor. He saw stacks of folded laundry. He rushed to a nearby pile and unfolded the first shirt. It was a white button-down. He hastily pulled it on, found a pair of shorts, trousers, socks, and one of the school's jackets. In a nearby closet, he found pairs of shoes all tucked neatly inside clear plastic bags. Remy pulled out a pair in what he thought was his size. Now he was dressed in the school uniform. He tucked his watch into the pocket of his appropriated coat. He spotted himself in the reflection of one of the dryer doors.

"Yup, I look pretty dumb," Remy told himself. He took a moment to fix his hair.

He hurried to the exit, pushed open the swinging door and cast a glance up and down the hall. At the far end of the corridor, he saw the other yellow cart turn the corner. The big woman, Joanna, was pushing it towards the room, but her attention was on her cellphone and she had earbuds in her ears. Remy dashed out of the laundry room and looked for the nearest escape route. He spotted a closed door, its window plastered over with blue and red playing cards. Remy seized the door handle and pushed his way inside. Once inside, he fell against the door to shut it. He listened at the door, hoping he hadn't been spotted.

"Oh, hello," said a voice.

Remy suppressed a startled shout and whirled towards the voice. With wide eyes, he stared at a girl seated behind the small desk. Her expression was one of surprise as well. She was red-haired with fair skin and bright green eyes. She had been drawing in a sketchbook with colored pencils. It seemed she was drawing up fantastical costumes. When she saw Remy looking, the girl put her hand over her drawings, seemingly embarrassed. Remy's eyes leapt back to the girl's. She looked a lot like the woman he had seen dead in Sinister's lair.

The girl stood. "R-Remy?" she asked hesitantly. "Are you...okay?"

Remy's hand still grasped the door handle and he quickly turned to pull it open. The door opened a few inches before Remy found it stuck. The door snapped itself shut by an unseen force, the handle pulled from his hand. Remy gasped.

"Wait!" the girl called and Remy realized it was she who had closed the door somehow.

Now in a panic, he tugged fitfully at the handle.

"Remy, what's wrong?" the girl asked. "Why are you scared? Where are you running to?"

Remy turned to face her. "Who are you? How do you know me?" he demanded.

The girl opened and then closed her mouth. She seemed to come to some kind of understanding. "I'm Jean," she said. Remy paused, confusion coloring his thoughts. It must have shown on his face because she added: "Jean from the past."

He was a little shaken when he stepped away from the door. He took a few halting steps towards the desk. "You're Jean Grey? De Jean Grey, like who dis school is named for?"

Jean nodded, her cheeks flushing. She rolled her eyes a bit. "The very same," she said in a dry tone and then gave an embarrassed laugh.

Remy felt a frightened tremor go through him. "Are you – aren't you... mad at me?"

Jean's fair eyebrows briefly came together. "Mad? No, why would I be mad?"

Remy thought perhaps she hadn't been told that he was responsible for her untimely death. He'd really stuck his foot in it now. He just shook his head and shrugged, uncertain of what to say. "I – I don't –. Uhm. Nothing."

Jean cocked her head and squinted at him. "You think you killed me," she said, as if she had plucked the thought from his mind.

Remy jolted. "No – I – it was an accident!"

Jean sighed impatiently. "Well, don't worry too much about it," she said with some sarcasm. "It's happened at least a half-dozen times or so by now."

Remy was confused by this statement. Jean didn't seem angry at all, just irritated. "I'm...uhm...sorry?"

Jean waved her hand airily and sat behind the desk. Remy sat slowly in the only other chair in the room, feeling fatigued from his adventure so far. He looked about the small empty office. The walls were white and lit with a soft ambient glow from the light fixture above. There was no window and the room was quite warm, almost hot. "What're you doin' here?" Remy asked.

Jean raised and lowered her shoulders. "Spending some time alone. Getting to know myself better," she told him.

Remy couldn't help himself: "Time well spent, _ch_ _è_ _rie_. I wouldn't mind getting to know you better myself."

Jean's mouth curved into a smile before she could prevent it. She attempted an indignant expression, even though her cheeks were pink. "You can't talk to me like that," she told him.

"Should I talk t'you _en_ _français_ instead?" Remy suggested. " _La langue d'amour_?"

Jean squared her shoulders. "You're supposed to be a professor, and I'm a student. I should report you straight away. We'll see what the headmaster has to say about this."

"Are we role playin'?" Remy asked. "I think I like dis game."

"No, I'm serious," Jean informed him. "In the future, you're a teacher."

Remy let out a short laugh. "No, I'm not!"

Jean grinned. "You are. All the female students want _you_ to be their private tutor."

"What kinda crazy future is dis?" Remy asked. "I'm in a parallel dimension, aren't I?"

Jean sobered a bit. "I'm afraid this is reality," she said.

Remy studied her, seeing the sadness in her gaze even though her mouth was still smiling. "When I asked what you were doin' here, I mean, here in de future...or present. Whenever."

"Oh," Jean said and sighed. "I'm...trying to make things right. Since I've been given the chance...to see – what becomes of me, I thought – I should do _something_ more. Something better."

"You don't want t'go back?" Remy asked.

Jean shook her head slowly, her hair sweeping over her shoulders. "I don't want the future to start yet."

"Well, I can't stay here. I want to go home. De angel boy said there's a time machine," Remy said. "That's how you got here. Can you take me to it? Do you know how to work it?"

Jean glanced down at her drawing pad. "No," she said. "It's broken."

"Broken? But..," he began, before a sort of realization came over him. He asked accusingly: "Did you break it?"

Jean grimaced. "I just wanted more _time_ ," Jean said. "As you know, I'm dead in the future."

" _Ch_ _è_ _re_ , we all dead in de future," Remy told her pragmatically.

She let out a short exasperated sigh. "I know that, Remy. But some of us have less future than others."

Remy thought for a moment. "Time is relative, y'know. You know when you're a little kid and y'think, oh...Christmas will _never_ get here. Or it's summertime and de days just seem long and there's all de time in de world. But as you grow up, days seem like they're shorter and weeks seem to go by quicker? I bet by de time I'm old, like _thirty_ , days'll just be like eye-blinks. I think perception of time elapsing is relative to de amount of time you experience alive."

"That's time in perspective. Time doesn't go faster or slower in a literal sense," Jean said.

"No, listen. You're wrong. Sometimes de longer you want t'delay something, the faster it seems to come up on you. Then there's other times when time just crawls along. Like when you're stuck wit' someone _tr_ _è_ _s p_ _é_ _nible_.And you think you'll never get through just de one hour."

"Well, if I could control time, I would stop it," Jean told him. "And do all the things I want to do before I die for about the hundredth time."

"If I could control time, I'd go back to de past and change it," Remy replied. "And make things better for everybody."

"Hank says you can't do that," Jean told him. "Not without creating paradoxes. You don't want to kill your own grandfather...or worse, _become_ your own grandfather on accident."

"At dis point, I'd settle for just getting back to de past where I belong," Remy said.

"How did you get here to begin with?" Jean asked.

"My own powers took me here," Remy explained. "I saw a bunch of these – ribbon things – and they all showed me different...I dunno. Like what would happen if I went one way and what would happen if I went another."

"Different possibilities?"

"Yeah, I guess. One I grabbed showed my –. Well, one showed me like I was back home," Remy told her.

"Why can't you just do it again?" Jean asked. "In reverse."

"I dunno," Remy replied, feeling sick to his stomach. "I would, but my powers don't seem to be workin' right since I got here. First it seemed like they were turned off. Then it seemed like someone else was controllin' them. Now it's like they're out of control. I'm afraid if I try, I'll blow myself and everyone else up."

"Maybe I can help you," Jean offered. "I know – well, I know the me in the future could use her powers to help Scott control his optic beams. At least temporarily."

When Remy gave her a confused look she added: "Scott's powers. He can blast a force from his eyes. He can control them only by wearing a visor."

"You're kidding me," Remy said, dumbfounded. "What's your powers then?"

"I have telekinetic abilities. I can move things with my thoughts," Jean said. "Also I can read other people's thoughts. But I didn't know that until recently."

Remy gave her a wary look.

"Don't worry," Jean said quickly. "Your thoughts are pretty hard to hold on to. Your head is full of static."

"So you've tried all ready," Remy said, his eyes narrowing a bit, "to read my thoughts."

"Well...yes. Okay, I did," Jean said unapologetically. "They're my powers, I'm...getting to know how to control them. Maybe I read your mind, but at least I didn't _kill_ you."

Remy felt his face burn and he looked away feeling a pinch of guilt in his chest.

"Sorry, that was mean," Jean said. "If it makes you feel any better, it was probably just some dumb clone you killed. Not the real me, but someone else."

Remy stared at her. "No," he said, his voice hard. "It doesn't make it better."

Jean sighed and looked at her folded hands. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she said quietly. "I don't mean to say things like that...they just kind of come out. I feel so angry, anymore. Even though there's no point. It's all so...futile."

Remy rubbed his sweating palms on his knees. "I think I know how you feel," he admitted. "So you think you can help me with my powers?"

"I don't see why not," Jean said, a little haughtily.

"Why would you help me?" Remy asked, somewhat suspicious. "What do you want? Someone you can test your powers out on? I'm not some experiment."

Jean shook her head. "No, don't think of it like that. I don't want anything, just to help."

Remy was having a hard time believing that.

"You helped me," Jean supplied. "Your adult self."

"Why would I do that?" Remy asked. "Was I hitting on you or somethin'? Am I some kind of creepy perv guy who goes after teenage girls?"

She laughed a little. "Well, that's the rumor," she answered and when Remy looked disgusted, she added: "But I don't think it's true. You can be very kind, when you want to be. When you're not being arrogant or self-absorbed."

"Arrogant I'll give you, but I'm _not_ self-absorbed," Remy said hotly.

"Yes, you are. You spend all your time consumed with your own thoughts you don't even know how to be with other people. And the arrogance is a disguise to keep people from seeing the real you," Jean informed him.

Remy frowned at her. "Aren't you so smart, Miss Know-It-All? Bet you know what's best for everyone."

Jean's eyes narrowed and her mouth turned into a pout. Remy supposed she was trying to give him her meanest look, but it was less than intimidating. Remy couldn't stop himself from laughing at her expression. Jean grew affronted and she sat back in the chair with her arms crossed. "Maybe I won't help you after all," she snapped.

Remy reached forward and snatched up her drawing pad. Jean lunged after it and Remy held it away from her, flipping through the pages. "What're you drawin'? Are you an artist?"

"Give that back," Jean said, coming around the desk towards him.

Remy turned his back towards her and looked at her sketchbook. It was mostly of figures standing on a blank field in different outfits. "Or maybe you're a designer. Dis one isn't half-bad...I wouldn't be caught dead wearin' that one."

Jean reached around him to grab the book from his hands. He refused to release it, grinning broadly as he tugged her closer. "You – little – brat!" she said, finally prying the book from his grip. "Like _you_ would know anything about fashion. You should see what your older self wears."

Remy smiled. "Well, it's good t'know that at least there's some things that don't change. But if you're lookin' to give yourself a new look, de shorter de skirt, de better."

Jean hit Remy in the head with her sketchbook.

Remy ducked, covering his head protectively. "Hey, watch it. I got a head injury," he said.

"You're brain damaged, that's for sure," Jean informed him and marched away. She opened a drawer in the desk and tucked her sketchbook safely inside of it.

"Mebbe dat's why my powers don't work," Remy said, his smile dropping off his face. "Or why I see things that aren't there and you can't read my thoughts. I think somethin' happened inside my head."

Jean considered him for several moments, then her eyes flicked away. "I don't know," she said. "I only heard that you were sick. I think it was serious. But you seem fine now. I could still help you, if you want. If you think you can trust me."

"I dunno about that, but I don't know what else t'do. It's not like I got a lot of choices," Remy said.

Jean nodded with determination. "Sure. So how should we start?"

"We can't do it here," Remy told her. "There's too many people. I'm afraid somethin' will go wrong. I don't want to blow up your school."

"It's not _my_ school," Jean said. "But, okay. We can go out on the grounds."

Remy moved to the door and tested the handle. He pulled it open slightly and peered out the crack. "You'll have t'sneak me outta here. I don't want to be taken back to de infirmary."

"I can use my powers to hide you," Jean said. "But there are other telepaths here. I don't know if I'm stronger than they are."

Remy's eyes searched the hall. "I got a better idea," he said and slipped into the hallway. He marched to the opposite side of the hall and reached for the red and white panel mounted on the wall. He lifted the plastic cover and drew the lever down. The fire alarm began to wail. Jean, who was standing in the doorway, grimaced at the sound and put her hands over her ears. Remy returned to the office and pulled the chair out into the hall.

He climbed upon the chair as Jean called: "What are you doing?"

Remy's fingers strained to reach the nearest sprinkler head, but he was several inches too short. He bit his lip as he concentrated on making a charge small enough not to do any damage but large enough to heat the air just below the sprinkler. Frustrated at his seeming lack of ability, he squinted hard at the sprinkler. With a sudden pop, the mechanism deployed, sending down a fountain of water. Remy hopped down from the chair to stand beside Jean, whose hair was now plastered down to her face.

"I wish you would have warned me you were going to do that," she said and created a telekinetic bubble to shield them both from the water.

"I thought you could read minds," he said, grinning at her. He pulled his jacket over his head with one hand, then grabbed Jean's hand with the other. "C'mon, show me how to get out!"

Jean lead the way, Remy trailing behind her. They joined a throng of students who were either shrieking or laughing as the water poured down on all their heads.

"Out, out...c'mon, everyone out," one of the teachers was saying. Her voice was bored and her expression was one of tired annoyance. She looked a lot like Jean except her hair was short. Remy wondered if she was a clone as well. "Let's go, get to the evacuation points. Use the buddy system."

They were lost in the crowd and herded down the halls and out onto the front lawn. Remy and Jean ducked their heads and dashed past the other students. "This way," Jean hissed and pulled him towards the woods. They started up a slight incline and then down the other side and out of sight. The other students milled about the lawn, their voices raised with excitement, suddenly finding themselves free on a sunny day. The pair dashed to the woods and found themselves in the cold wet shade beneath the trees. Once under cover of the forest, they slowed to a walk with Remy following closely after Jean.

"It's freezing," Remy said, his teeth chattering.

"Let's go find a clearing," Jean said. "Maybe the sun will dry us off some. There's one this way." She directed them onto a different path.

"You know where we're going?" Remy asked.

"Oh, yeah. I've been coming here...for as long as I can remember, really," Jean said. "My parents first brought me here as a girl. For counseling, after my friend died."

"I'm sorry about your friend," Remy told her. "Was she – did she get sick or something?"

Jean shook her head, not looking over at Remy. "No. Annie died suddenly. She was hit by a car."

"Oh," Remy said a little pathetically. Then he added: "It's different when someone dies all of a sudden like that...as opposed to gettin' sick. You don't get any time to prepare yourself, especially when they were just fine a second before – before it happened. Talkin' to you and all. Makes it hard to believe they're really gone."

"I knew she was gone," Jean said. "I was with her when she died. It's like I felt her die. But then – maybe I did. With my powers. I thought I would die, too." They were silent for several moments, walking through the hushed forest.

"I didn't see Etienne die," Remy admitted, breaking the silence. "I was too busy tryin' to save myself. But I saw his body later, when I had t'go identify him."

"Was Etienne your friend?" Jean asked, looking back at him.

Remy nodded. "My cousin. Mostly when he was alive I thought he was a whiner and a pest. Me an' my other cousin, we used to tease him real bad. But he was younger'n us, so we'd let him tag along and we'd look after him. But I guess Emil was better at watchin' out for him than me. I was supposed t'be takin' care of him...when he was killed."

Jean had his hand in hers and she held it a little tighter. She smiled at him sadly. Remy had to look away, unable to accept her sympathy. "When I saw him at de morgue, I thought: that could be me dead there just as easy. And I was glad it wasn't. So you're right about me bein' self-absorbed."

"You probably felt fortunate to be alive," Jean told him.

"Fortunate...right," Remy said without candor. They had reached a small park-like clearing along the lake. There was a large split log that served as a bench. They both sat on it and looked out at the water. Remy wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

"Still cold?" Jean asked.

"Dis ain't a habitat suitable for human life," Remy complained.

"It's actually very nice out," Jean said and leaned back to brace herself on her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her. "Storm probably made it warm since all the students are outside."

"Maybe we should get out of our wet clothes and huddle together...y'know, to conserve body heat," Remy suggested.

Jean gave him a disapproving glance. "I don't think so," she told him.

"If your boyfriend finds out, we can tell him we did what we had to, to survive," Remy said with a smirk.

Jean shoved his shoulder and he laughed. "I don't _have_ a boyfriend," Jean said. "Not anymore."

Remy rubbed his shoulder. "You break up? Wow, too bad for him."

"Yes, too bad," Jean said, sitting up straighter, her hands on her knees. "Too bad he turned out to be a – a wanted criminal!"

"I fail t'see de problem with that," Remy said.

"Pfft..," Jean said, glancing at him sidelong. "I'm sure you wouldn't. What about you? I bet you have _lots_ of girlfriends."

"I don't have _any_ ," Remy replied. "I'm not good boyfriend material. But I am betrothed."

Jean turned to look at him. "Betrothed? Like to be married?"

"Do you know any other kind of betrothed?" Remy said in a desultory way. He shrugged out of his damp coat, thinking it was keeping him cold. The shirt beneath was still dry.

"I didn't think people did that anymore," Jean mused.

"My family's old fashioned," Remy said, looking put at the lake. "Real, _real_ old fashioned."

"I all ready know who I'm supposed to marry, too," Jean said. "It's pretty much the same thing as being betrothed. Except I know what happens _after_ we get married."

"You live happily ever after?" Remy asked with false brightness.

Jean gave him another one of her angry looks.

"Am I married, de future me? Do you know?" he asked her.

"I don't think so," Jean said, shaking her head. "You're not wearing a ring, anyway. What's your future wife's name?"

"Belle. BellaDonna."

Jean shook her head again. "I'm afraid I don't know her."

Remy felt a sensation of dread. "Oh, no. What if she's dead?" Remy murmured, mostly to himself. His heart accelerated in his chest. He asked: "Did she die? Was she killed?"

"Calm down," Jean said. "I don't know. Maybe you were separated. Maybe you got a divorce?"

"I think she'd kill me before she'd let that happen," Remy said and now he was shaking. "Somethin' bad must've happened to her. I have to go back! I can't let her die."

"Remy, there's nothing you can do to change the past," Jean said sadly. "Once you go back –."

Remy quickly stood. He must have stood too quickly, because he lurched forward a pace or two before he steadied himself. "Do whatever you got to do to send me back, Jean. I don't care, read my mind, take over my thoughts. Just put me back where I'm supposed t'be."

Jean slowly rose and stood beside him. Remy had to look up at her, she was a few inches taller than he was. "Okay, I'll try." She put her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated. "Can you be still for a second?" she asked. "You have to calm down."

"I'm tryin' to," Remy said, though his heart seemed to be beating arrhythmically. His shivering had turned into shaking.

"Close your eyes and concentrate," Jean instructed. "Just take a deep breath."

Remy sucked air into his lungs and closed his eyes. He just as quickly let out a breath. Though he was cold, he was sweating. "Jean, I think something's wrong."

"Relax, Remy, I'm trying to help you. Your mind is like a bar of soap. If soap was made out of electricity. Every time I go to grab it, it slips out of my grip and shocks me at the same time."

Remy reached out and grasped Jean's forearms. His head was pounding and his ear was ringing again. "Jean, stop!" he said and his eyes snapped open. He found himself staring past Jean's shoulder. There was a figure standing in the distance, a figure he recognized. Remy stood, frozenly staring at the figure.

"I'm almost...," Jean began. She was sweating now too. She let out a gasp. "Remy, I don't – I'm not strong enough."

"Jean...," Remy said, his eyes fixed to the figure as it began to walk slowly towards them.

Jean looked down at him, her brow furrowing. "Remy? Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Remy's mouth slowly opened, but he found himself unable to answer. Jean looked at him with concern, then turned her head to look over her shoulder. "Who is that?" she asked.

"You can – you can see him too?" Remy croaked, finally finding his voice.

Jean turned, letting Remy's hand slip into her own. "Of course I can, he's standing right there. Who is he?"

Remy swallowed dryly. "It's de pale man," he said. "It's Sinister."

"Sinister?" Jean repeated, and squinted at the man. "What is he doing here? What does he want?"

Remy tugged on Jean's hand. "We need t'go. We have to run!"

"But –!"

"Run!" Remy cried and dragged her after him. She followed, stumbling at first before finding her feet. Remy dashed into the forest, Jean crashing through the brush behind him.

"Wait, Remy! Where are we going?" Jean called.

"Away from him! Back to de school!"

"Then we're going the wrong way," Jean said and tugged him in a different direction.

Remy now followed Jean, their feet kicking through piles of fallen leaves. "Do you think we can outrun him?" Jean asked.

Remy didn't respond because he feared the answer would be: 'No.'

"Why are you so scared of him? Who is he?"

"He's a monster!" Remy said.

"Is he chasing you? What does he want from you?" Jean asked as they ducked beneath the branches of a pine.

"He wants – he –," Remy gasped and clutched at the stitch in his side. He was out of breath and he fell several paces behind. He came to a stumbling halt.

Jean slowed her pace and turned. Remy panted, bent over while holding his knees and gasping. Jean trotted back to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You look pale."

Remy shook his head, unable to speak. Just then, there was a snap of a twig from behind Jean.

" _Aiee_!" Jean shrieked and spun. She threw out a hand and there came a sound of a body thudding against a nearby tree trunk. Dry twigs tumbled down from above.

"Ow! Geez, Jean!" Scott said and pulled himself to his feet. He held his chest where she had hit him with a telekinetic bolt.

"Oh, Scott! Sorry!" Jean said, looking embarrassed.

"What are you doing out here?" Scott asked and then looked at Remy. He said bossily: "You know, everyone at the school is looking for you. You'd better go back."

"I don't – I – ," Remy spluttered.

"And why did you attack me?" Scott asked Jean.

"I thought you were –!" Jean began, then found herself at a loss for words.

"You thought I was who?" Scott asked and straightened his glasses.

Jean frowned and pointed. "I thought you were him."

Scott turned to look over his shoulder. "Who the heck are you?"

"Oh, no...," Remy moaned.

Sinister emerged from the gloomy shadows of the trees. Sinister's eyes flicked from Scott and then to Jean, then at last came to rest upon Remy. He smiled with cruel intent. "Excellent work, Remy. You've managed to bring them both."

* * *

**Next time:** Jean v. Jean-Luc.


	41. Back and Forth

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

"You could tell me how we meet," Jean suggested, tapping her forefinger against the worn tabletop that separated her from the Thieves' Guild patriarch. Jean-Luc was seated on the seat opposite, studying her in a bemused sort of way.

"I could," he said slowly and folded his hands upon the tabletop. "But I won't."

"And why not?" Jean asked, thoroughly annoyed with the older gentleman's secrecy.

Jean-Luc smiled thinly. "Because you are not unlike my son. If you knew what de future holds, you would do everything in your power to delay, avoid, or resist what you felt was not of your own choosing."

"But you _know_ what is going to happen," Jean said. "And you _want_ it to happen."

Jean-Luc nodded once. "I do, and yes, very much. Because it all ready has happened, in my past and your future. You don't know how important you are."

Jean frowned at him. "Maybe I don't want to be important. Maybe I want to just _be_. A person, a woman. Not a vessel for some cosmic entity, not a pawn in someone's schemes."

Jean-Luc continued to regard her with his benign expression. The pair swayed a bit as the train bearing them to New York City took a slow turn in the tracks. To Jean's left and Jean-Luc's right was a large window that reflected their images in washed out hues. Beyond the window was darkness.

"You're different than what I imagined you would be like," Jean told him.

"How so?" he asked.

"What I knew of you was from Remy's thoughts," Jean said. "And for one, I thought you would be much taller."

"That's strange, since Remy stands head and shoulders above me," Jean-Luc commented.

"Maybe it's just that you're an imposing influence in his life," Jean said. "He believes you're disappointed in him."

"Sometimes," Jean-Luc conceded. "But any father would want his son to accomplish more than what he had accomplished for himself."

"And if it works to your benefit, you can use his guilt to manipulate him into doing whatever you want him to...," Jean suggested.

"All I've done was to keep Remy walking upon de earth instead of being buried in it," Jean-Luc replied. "Though there are times I think my son tries to spite me in even that."

"He does seem a tad self-destructive," Jean said, realizing as she spoke that it was something of an understatement.

Jean-Luc regarded her archly.

"You remind me of someone," Jean told him.

"Do you know many thieves?" Jean-Luc asked.

"No, but I knew a space pirate," Jean said.

Jean-Luc let out a short surprised laugh. "I can see why Remy never wanted to come back to de Guild. It must seem quite boring after having been an X-Man. How did you become acquainted wit' dis 'space pirate'?"

"He was my father-in-law," Jean answered. "He called himself Corsair."

"How fantastical," Jean-Luc observed dryly.

"More fantastical than an ancient cult of nearly immortal thieves?" Jean asked.

"I've never been off-planet. And I have no intention of doing so even wit' de promise of untold space-pirate-treasure," Jean-Luc replied. He thought for a moment then said: "When Remy was a boy he told me he wished t'go t'space."

Jean smiled a bit. "Did he? I suppose he got his wish."

"Not quite...he had no intention of ever returning to Earth. I think it was solitude he was after," Jean-Luc said.

"In my opinion, all that emptiness of space is somewhat frightening," Jean said.

"I think Remy only said it because he was tired of hearin' me tell him t'study," Jean-Luc added.

"You should tell me some embarrassing story about Remy's childhood so I can tease him about it later," Jean encouraged.

Jean-Luc brought his folded hands up to his mouth to conceal his smile. "I think I've given Remy enough reasons to hate me."

"He doesn't hate you," Jean told him. "He loves you."

"That's good t'know," Jean-Luc said.

"But I'm not sure that he likes you," Jean added.

Jean-Luc drew a deep breath and released it. "I never expected fatherhood t'be easy," Jean-Luc said finally. "I have had two boys. Henri was about as respectful and dutiful a son as a man could hope for. Remy, on de other hand, certainly challenged de boundaries of my patience. And I have been alive a long, long time. Patience is a strong suit of mine."

"I imagine he must have been a handful," Jean said coyly, still hoping for some insight on Remy's boyhood.

Jean-Luc seemed to think for a moment. "He might have been a bit more rambunctious than most. A smart mouth on that one, a lot of back-talk. Full of energy, always fidgeting, never still. He wasn't a _bad_ boy...kept to himself, didn't start fights, didn't mess wit' drugs. He'd frustrate me t'no end, though. De boy just wouldn't be taught."

"They make medication for that now," Jean said. "For children with learning disabilities."

Jean-Luc waved his hand dismissively and shook his head. "Nah, nah, he was able t'learn – usually de hard way. He just refused t'be taught, least not by me. Did you know, he taught his own self how t'read? How t'do numbers? Before I ever took him in, he all ready had learnt it. He figured he had to teach himself because he didn't want de folks who fenced his stealings t'cheat him any."

"I have no idea what it must have been like, to be living on the streets. I wonder how he managed to accomplish reading and mathematics on his own?" Jean mused. "It couldn't have been easy if he was trying to feed and clothe himself at the same time."

A flicker of some emotion passed over Jean-Luc's face, it might have been guilt. He said: "Even if help was offered, he wouldn't have taken it. Worse, is that he never _un_ learned a thing. Even if he had somethin' mixed up, dere was no telling him different. His spelling... _Dieu._ Have you tried t'read his writing? I've seen partial manuscripts written in dead languages dat are more coherent."

Jean couldn't stop her lips from curling into a smile. "I'm sorry, could you repeat _dat_?"

"Ain?" Jean-Luc said, looking at her askance.

"Nothing, never mind," Jean said quickly.

Jean-Luc sat forward a bit. "I know when I'm being disrespected, girl. And no one disrespects me."

"I can see you are having a _Goodfellas_ moment, Jean-Luc, but I'm not from your world and you don't intimidate me in the least," Jean replied.

Jean-Luc considered her for a moment. "I suppose if I wanted to get under de skin of some Anglo-Saxon Protestant type, I should snub you at a garden party or at de next regatta."

"You slay me with your rapier wit," Jean quipped back. "I might've mistaken you for an assassin."

"Touché," Jean-Luc said.

Jean attempted to give him a surly look that dissolved into a smile. "Clearly you've managed to teach Remy a thing or two...the two of you are just alike."

"I think Remy might die t'hear you say such a thing," Jean-Luc said, then his brow furrowed with sudden worry. "Enh, I shouldn't have said that."

Jean reached out and tapped the back of his hand reassuringly. "He'll be okay. Loga – ah, the – they didn't tell you what was wrong? What Remy was sick with?"

Jean-Luc shook his head. "I was told he needed to explain de situation to me in person," Jean-Luc told her. "Which doesn't seem to bode well."

Jean shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. "I had only seen Remy a few hours before and he was fine. Well, he was healthy anyway."

Jean-Luc's blue eyes were distant. He frowned to himself. "Remy got real sick when he was a boy. Just after – he lost one of his friends. His cousin. So he must've been fifteen, sixteen. It seemed like he might die. Our healer sat up wit' him all hours, layin' hands on him. Finally, he came to...but he was different, then."

"Children can be pretty resilient," Jean said. "But I've seen Remy, as an adult, eat things out of the refrigerator not even Wolverine would touch, even with a healing factor."

"No – I mean when Remy come to, he was a different person," Jean-Luc said. "He came back different after he was sick. Given t'dark moods. Seemed not t'care sometimes, 'bout anyone but himself."

"Teenagers can be that way," Jean said sympathetically.

"Yes...," was Jean-Luc's distant reply.

"Maybe you should call the school?" Jean suggested. "And ask how he's doing."

Jean-Luc sat back in his seat. "You could do de talkin'," Jean-Luc said. "They're your friends."

"He's your son," Jean responded.

The pair regarded one another for a moment.

"Should I be concerned," Jean-Luc began, "about my son's safety at dis school?"

"I'm sure everything will be fine," Jean said quietly.

"When Remy joined de X-Men, I was relieved. I knew it'd be de turning point that'd send him back home. Once he had a chance t'see what de rest of de world was like," Jean-Luc told her. "What his options were."

"So you sent him off into the big, bad world knowing he'd come back?" Jean asked. "I thought you wanted him to achieve more than you had?"

"It's de truth, I do," Jean-Luc said.

"But as a thief," Jean stated.

"As de _best_ thief," Jean-Luc answered.

"Can't you imagine a better life – a _different_ life," she corrected, "for him? One that doesn't involve being a thief?"

Jean-Luc fixed her with his pale gaze. "Fighting for a dream of peaceful co-existence between humans and mutants? Seems like he spends more time just fightin' to survive...somethin' he's well-versed in. I happen to think he deserves more than just surviving."

"Why would he go back to the Guild?" Jean asked. "You abandoned him."

"So I guess me and de X-Men have that in common."

Jean pressed her lips together.

"But he'd never been sidelined, or made t'feel useless in de Guild," Jean-Luc said. "He was essential, integral. He couldn't stand de responsibility, no matter how I tried to prepare him. He needs somethin' in between. T'feel important, t'be wanted, even to just one person."

Jean nodded reluctantly, feeling as she traveled closer and closer to her home in New York, the pressure increased in her skull, in her heart. She murmured: "I suppose...that is more than a lot of people could hope for."

Jean-Luc's expression was difficult to read, but Jean sensed perhaps he was satisfied with her response. "I heard it said that a parent can only be as happy as his saddest child. Well, it's been a long, sad eight years. I'm glad for Remy's sake it's nearly over."

~ oOo ~

There was a car waiting for them at New York's Penn Station. Or rather, it was waiting for Jean-Luc and Jean was along for the ride. It was a dove-gray Mercedes, its windows concealing the interior with pearly reflective tint. The man driving the vehicle stepped from the driver's side, then stepped to the curb to open the passenger door for Jean. He ducked his head and gestured for her to enter. Jean glanced from him to Jean-Luc.

"A moment," Jean-Luc told her and held up a forefinger, expecting her patience. He stepped back from the car and the driver followed. Jean reluctantly slipped into the posh interior of the vehicle, watching as the two men moved back from the flow of foot traffic to speak quietly. Even as she pulled the door shut, Jean slipped into Jean-Luc's thoughts to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Duchesne is dead," the unknown thief said.

"Duchesne?" Jean-Luc reiterated, feeling a flash of alarm.

" _Weh_ ," the other verified. "Babette called in a fit. She say some crazy _rosbif_ come into de shop and smash de place up. Killed Duchesne as soon as look at him."

"Dammit, I was just there," Jean-Luc said, cursing himself for not checking up on his fellow thieves while in the area, and feeling guilt for putting his personal life first.

"What should we do?" the thief asked.

"Marcus will be back on his feet soon enough," Jean-Luc said and Jean could feel him prioritizing his thoughts in smart order. "We'll have him reinstated. In de meantime, go to Boston. Leave de girl in charge."

The other thief seemed surprised. "But –."

Jean-Luc fared the subordinate with a steely stare. "You have something to add?" he asked.

"No, sir," the other responded.

Jean-Luc turned away to start towards the car. "It will be a crash-course in responsibility for her," he said. "Something she'll need t'learn if she's thinkin' t'keep that baby a'hers. And they almost always do."

Jean-Luc opened the driver's side door and slipped into the vehicle beside Jean.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Fine," he said, turning the key in the ignition. He neatly pulled the car out into traffic without hesitation, driving on the offensive as most New Yorkers did. "Directions to dis school?" he prompted, still in command-mode.

Jean couldn't very well confront him over what she had learned without revealing that she had spied on his thoughts. She frowned, not appreciating his authoritative tone. "You'll need 684," Jean told him, putting as much irritation into her tone as possible.

Jean-Luc's hands tightened on the wheel, not because he had taken note of her attitude, but because of his own preoccupation with recent events. "How long 'til we get there?" he asked.

"About an hour," Jean said, then felt as if a stone had settled its weight into her stomach. She frowned and turned to look out the window at the passing city. When they arrived in Salem Center, what would happen then? What could she expect when they turned onto Greymalkin Lane? She chewed on her lower lip. Jean-Luc seemed to emerge from his reverie to take note of her sudden silence. Jean was impressed with his perceptiveness.

"When Henri was a little boy," Jean-Luc began, casting a glance over at her. "He was messin' 'round with de electric, and I told him: 'Boy, don't you put anything in that electric socket.' Henri asked me: 'Why, poppa?' I told him: 'Because you'll get a nasty shock.' Henri got de point, he left it well enough alone." Jean-Luc paused. "When Remy first came to live with me, I saw him sittin' on de kitchen countertop, stickin' a fork into de toaster tryin' to get dis piece of toast out. I told him: 'Remy don't you stick that fork in there.' He looked up and me and I went about readin' de newspaper. Then I hear nothing until there's a terrible scream and I look up and there de toaster's on fire." Jean-Luc shook his head. "Remy never asked me 'why?' Not once. He only ever asked himself: 'Why _not_?'"

"You said he wouldn't be taught," Jean said.

Jean-Luc smiled a bit. "Here's de funny part. He looks at me wit' big eyes and he says: 'Daddy, I know I did wrong, but before you whoop me, can you tell me de story about Jesus and de little children again?'"

" _What_?" Jean asked unbelievingly, feeling herself smile.

"He'd only been t'Sunday school de first time that mornin', and all ready he'd worked it out how he could use it against me. I nearly died trying not to laugh. Then we always had _de story about Jesus_ story _._ "

"So I guess he got out of a spanking," Jean said.

"I swatted him after I patched up his hand," Jean-Luc admitted. "But he did a good job delaying punishment for as long as possible."

Jean sniffed. "Well, you shouldn't hit a child," she said authoritatively.

"I never hit him out of anger," Jean-Luc replied. "I probably should have hit him _more_."

"Jean-Luc, that's a terrible thing to say."

"There are worse things than discipline," Jean-Luc defended. "You think maybe I do what? Give him – what do they call it? – a ' _time-out_ '? Make him sit and think about what he done wrong? Do you know what Remy would do wit' time spent alone? Work out ways to make me crazy, that's what."

"There has to be dozens of ways to enforce discipline that don't require physical punishment," Jean said. "Taking away privileges, for one."

"You know, I tried grounding him once," Jean-Luc responded, casually glancing over at her before returning his eyes to the road. "Took away his freedom, kept a close eye on him. Worst mistake I made. I think he would have chewed his own leg off to get away from me. He turned into a wild animal. I should've slapped him and been done wit' it."

Jean let out an impatient sigh and looked away from him. "I won't see eye-to-eye with you on this. Would you raise a hand to your grandson?"

Jean-Luc made a disgusted noise. "I wouldn't," he admitted. "But he's a different sort of child."

"How so?"

"He's...not a particularly _robust_ boy. Some kinda genetic defect is what those doctors say," Jean-Luc's expression seemed to convey irritation. "I say, he just needs some outdoors and exercise. Dirt don't hurt. Rough him up a bit and cut de apron strings. Make him less of a momma's boy."

"I'm sure his mother takes extra precautions," Jean said. "Raising him on her own. Remy never said he was an uncle, but then, he never really speaks about his family at all."

Jean-Luc made a noncommittal noise.

"You'll want to take the Parkway," Jean said and pointed. Jean-Luc obliged and changed lanes.

They drove for some time in silence. Jean tried not to think about where they were going, but as they began to pass familiar roads, fear fluttered in her chest. She reached out and fiddled with the radio, pressing the buttons to scan to a different radio station.

"What kind of music do you like?" Jean asked.

"I listen to NPR," Jean-Luc responded.

Jean wrinkled her nose, but changed it to the station anyway. A news program was on. Jean sat back into the seat with a sigh. "Charles would have chosen this as well."

"Xavier?" Jean-Luc asked.

Jean nodded. "I think I would prefer some distraction from the real world for a moment. At least for the span of a car ride."

"I bet your professor had a hell of a time with you," Jean-Luc remarked.

Jean glanced at Jean-Luc's profile, pursing her lips. "Whatever are you talking about?"

Jean-Luc smiled to himself. "Tryin' to manage you, what with you knowin' everything there is to know all ready."

Jean narrowed her eyes at him. "I was a model student," she informed him.

"Mm," Jean-Luc said, clearly disbelieving her.

Jean's mouth opened, surprised that this man, a complete stranger, was able to get under her skin. "I had _initiative_."

"Hard-headed and impetuous," Jean-Luc nodded to himself.

Jean let out an exasperated noise. "Between you and Remy – you're going to drive me insane!"

"Be a short trip," Jean-Luc commented drolly.

"Oh!" Jean slapped his hand, which was resting on the gear shift.

Jean-Luc let out a self-satisfied chuckle. "You're a funny girl."

"I'm not a girl," Jean said, and crossed her arms.

"I admit I was a bit – troubled when Remy said you'd died. Seemed not t'make any sense to me," Jean-Luc said.

"You're not the only one," Jean said. After a moment, she asked: "Remy told you about me?"

"De few times I could get him on de phone," Jean-Luc began. "He'd talk about everyone _but_ himself. Seemed I knew more about de goings on at Xavier's than I knew about my own kid."

"That probably didn't sit well with you. What with you loving to know _everyt'ing dere is to know_ ," Jean parroted back at him.

"Sass-mouthed," Jean-Luc said, as if he were adding it to a list.

"You're such an ass," Jean told him as if it were a compliment.

"Careful, _ch_ _è_ _re_. I almost think you're flirting wit' me," Jean-Luc chided.

That he spoke to her with such familiarity might have been disturbing if there wasn't an element of fondness as well. "We've done this before, haven't we?" Jean asked.

"Done what?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Bantered, I suppose you'd call it," Jean said.

"Argued?" Jean-Luc suggested instead. "Ah, _weh_. We've gone many rounds. Maybe someday, you'll pry that stick out of your ass."

Jean was about to retort when she spied the exit they were supposed to take. "Turn here!" she said suddenly.

Jean-Luc seemed surprised, but narrowly made the exit ramp by cutting off a driver in the right-hand lane. They were treated to a loud blare of a car horn.

"You really got to work on your navigation skills," Jean-Luc advised solemnly.

Jean pried her hands off the doorframe and carseat and breathed out through her nose. "Suddenly, I am glad this car ride is nearly over," she said. She directed him through Salem Center, though by now, he seemed to have an idea of where he was going. Jean had to swallow dryly when they turned onto Greymalkin Lane.

Jean-Luc drove slowly up the lane and then passed by the school driveway.

"You missed the turn," Jean said, her voice husky with nervousness.

"I realize that," Jean-Luc said matter-of-factly as he reached the end of the access road, took the slow turn on the cul-de-sac, and drove back in the opposite direction. Once more, he passed by the school, coolly appraising it as he did so.

"You – are you – 'casing the joint'?" Jean asked incredulously.

"Mm," Jean-Luc said, his eyes studying the gate, the fence, and the walls of the school beyond with his pale blue eyes.

"Jean-Luc," Jean began, "you do _know_ you've been invited inside? That you can go in through the front gate?"

Jean-Luc turned off of Greymalkin Lane and went back up one of the main roads to the next block. "And what would be de fun in that?" he asked.

Jean put a hand to her forehead. "Good lord. I have a completely articulated understanding of Remy LeBeau now."

Jean-Luc flashed a smile at her.

"You can't break in," Jean said to him, as if trying to explain something to a small child. "You don't understand the level of security –."

"But _you_ do," Jean-Luc said.

"I can't be a party to this," Jean said, crossing her arms.

Jean-Luc steered the car onto the berm alongside a little-used gravel road that ran along the backside of the school's perimeter. He put the vehicle into park. "I'm not just going to walk in to de school and have them bombard me wit' whatever cover story they've come up with. I want to know de truth."

"You can't use me to break in. I have – I can't do that," Jean told him.

Jean-Luc studied her. "Why not?" he challenged.

"Can't you just do the _normal_ thing and walk in through the front door? Check in at the desk," Jean reasoned. "What reason do you have to believe that they would lie to you? Why don't you trust them?"

"Why don't _you_ trust them?" Jean-Luc repeated.

Jean's breathing became irregular. "Just – stop it!" she said and pushed back at him with her powers.

"Jillian –," Jean-Luc began.

Jean threw open the passenger door and climbed out. Jean-Luc was quick to follow, looking over the roof of the car at her, his expression guarded.

"Tell me...," Jean began dangerously. "Tell me what you know about me!"

"I know you have a good heart," Jean-Luc answered. "You're a good person."

Jean put her hand to her chest, feeling her heart beating rapidly there. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears. "Am I?" she croaked. "Am I good? Would someone good have _used_ the closest thing she had to a friend, and seen him killed? Would someone _good_ have attacked a woman in her own home? And left her for dead?"

"What are you –?" Jean-Luc began.

Jean continued: "Am I a _person_ at all? _What_ _am I_?"

Before Jean-Luc could answer, there came a sound of alarms from the school. Though they could not see the school for all the trees, they could hear the shrill blast of a fire alarm. Jean started and looked up at the sky, searching for smoke. Jean-Luc turned and took off for the forest.

"Wait!" Jean called and hurried after him.

Before she had much time to process what was happening, Jean had followed after Jean-Luc, who had neatly scaled the perimeter fence, avoiding sensors and other security measures, ducking under the views of cameras, to vanish into the woods. Jean knew she couldn't hide her presence from electronic eyes, so she tried to follow as best she could. Jean caught up to him and stayed him with a touch upon the back of his jacket. He turned to glance at her and Jean took the moment to take the lead, guiding the thief towards the school. Her mind was awake to the presence of others' thoughts, but in this back section of the property, it was unlikely they would encounter anyone. At last they made it to the edge of the woods. Beyond was the cleared expanse of well-manicured lawn leading up to the school building. Jean stared at it. From this vantage point, she could see the school was more gracious and sprawling than it had every been before. It bore little resemblance to the red brick and mortar Colonial she had grown up in. Right now, all the windows were flashing with bright white light and the alarms were blaring. Children were spilling out onto the front lawn.

Jean-Luc observed the chaos stoically. "Is dis sort of thing normal?" he asked.

Jean sighed. "This is probably one of their _better_ days," she answered dryly.

* * *

Next time: Memories restored.


	42. Flashback

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

Gambit wasn't exactly sure where he was at first. After wandering through the woods for a few minutes, there came a sensation of familiarity. He recognized the variety of trees surrounding him and the cast of pale yellow light he'd come to know in the northeast. Gambit was pretty sure he was back in Westchester, New York. The recognizable sight of the lake before him confirmed that he was not far from The Jean Grey School. Though he knew _where_ he was, he wasn't entirely certain he knew _when_ he was. Gambit started around the edge of the lake, ambling along with his hands in his pockets, in no particular hurry. There was a strange feeling of stillness inside his head that he rarely experienced. The scenery around him, the calls of birds, the light wind off the lake, the reflection on the water's surface of the white puffy clouds above, buoyed his tranquil mood. He kept his eyes to his feet, watching where he stepped in the overlong grass which had been laid flat by months of snow. Up ahead, he caught a glimpse of something blue laying on the turf. Gambit approached the object and stood over it. It was a blue jacket, part of the JGS uniform. Gambit smirked and stooped to pick up the jacket. At the very least it was a sign that Gambit was in the right time period. When he checked the label on the inside collar of the jacket, he saw the initials QQ written in black ink there. Gambit's smile widened. Perhaps he could run the jacket up the flagpole and have Mr. Quire retrieve it, as a lesson in personal responsibility. The fact that the flagpole was on top of one of the levitating towers floating about eight stories above the ground only added impact to the lesson.

As he held the jacket, he could feel the weight of something in one of the pockets. Gambit riffled in the pocket and turned out a pocket watch. For a moment, he stood staring at the worn brass watch case. Then it seemed he was seeing double for a moment: a vision of two of his left hands holding two identical watches. His breath caught in his throat and a wave of vertigo passed over him. Too late, he realized he was about to experience one of those flashes of forgotten memory. Gambit staggered and tumbled forward as the memories overtook him.

_Of the three thousand one-hundred and seventy seven days of Remy's life, this one was the worst. It seemed no sooner than he had been taken in by Jean-Luc that he had been_ abandoned _. Left behind, while the man he had been instructed to address as 'father' went off on an unknown errand. Remy had been deposited at Tante Mattie's house out in the middle of absolutely_ nowhere _, leaving Remy without the comfort and the company of the city streets he knew and loved. After a few hours dogging his Tante's heels, Remy had been instructed to go outside and play. Whatever that entailed, Remy hadn't understood. He had wandered about the yard until he spotted the only other structure to be seen in this godforsaken stretch of bayou wilderness. The building was an old shed, full of rusting odds and ends, spiderwebs, and to Remy's amusement, a litter of kittens. There were five kittens in all, with black and white fur, too small to even have their eyes open yet. Remy had spent nearly an hour picking up the kittens, holding them in his lap, pressing their soft bodies to his cheek. He started to decide on names for the kittens, but it was difficult because they all looked so much alike, he kept forgetting which one was named what. He was still puzzling it out when he heard a sound and looked up. That was when he realized that the litter of kittens was in fact a litter of_ polekittens _and the mother polecat had returned. She was not happy to see him._

_Remy flew out of the shed, reeling and retching at the horrifying stench that seared his nose and throat. The scent of skunk was so much_ more _when it was up close and personal, it took on new and terrible proportions. Tante Mattie emerged from her cottage to see what all the commotion was about. She exclaimed and fretted over Remy's predicament. A thick yellow goo had been sprayed across his face and the front of his shirt, his favorite shirt that his brother Henri had given him (no strings attached, Henri had promised). Mattie dispensed with his shirt. It was gone, put into the trash even though he begged her to let him keep it. Now Remy was in a galvanized tub with Mattie above him. She was pouring canned tomatoes over his head. Remy hated tomatoes almost as much as he hated peas. He hated them_ more _now that he was wearing them. When the tomatoes seemed to not be resolving the situation, Mattie retreated to her cottage to regroup and possibly find another remedy. Remy sat miserably in the tub, his eyes stinging, his nose running, covered head to toe in tomato sauce. It was the worst day ever._

_There came the sound of tires on gravel as a vehicle pulled up Tante Mattie's long drive. Remy watched as a figure appeared from around the corner of Mattie's cottage. It was Jean-Luc. Remy could see his father's shocked expression; eyes wide, mouth slack. The older man suddenly broke into a run towards Remy, falling to his knees before the tub. His hands closed down on Remy's shoulders, sliding down his thin bare arms and examining him in a frenzied panic._

_"Mon dieu, Remy!" Jean-Luc cried. "Where are you hurt?"_

_Then the smell seemed to hit Jean-Luc like a physical blow. He gasped then coughed spasmodically. Remy realized the expression he had seen on Jean-Luc's face was one of fear; that his father had seen the red tomato juice and mistaken it for blood. Jean-Luc had been afraid his son had been hurt. The realization sent a wave of emotion through Remy. He extended his arms and threw them around his father's shoulders, burying his face in Jean-Luc's neck._

_"Ack! Remy –!" Jean-Luc gasped, appalled by the terrible odor. He understood by now that Remy was not harmed at all, and to his credit he did not thrust the child away to make his escape._

_"I – want – to go – hooome!" Remy wailed, milking the moment for all it was worth as Jean-Luc's arms closed around him. The misery Remy had been experiencing evaporated, and instead his chest filled with a effervescent feeling of happiness. Somebody cared about him._

_Remy was in Tante Mattie's cottage. Days seemed to have elapsed in an eyeblink because he was now thirteen years old. He was laying back on Mattie's couch, covered in a patchwork quilt. Once again, he found himself to be miserable. This time he was glad to be at Mattie's and away from other people. If it weren't for other people and their germs, he wouldn't have gotten sick. Remy scratched idly at a spot on his neck, grimacing to himself. He held his paperback book open with the opposite hand._

_"Now, quit dat scratchin'," Tante Mattie scolded from where she stood minding her stove, not even bothering to turn to look at Remy directly._

_Remy ignored her and itched his chest, then a spot on his ribcage._

_"What'd I tell you?" Mattie said and Remy scratched his head._

_"It's in my hair!" Remy groused and turned a page in his book._

_"If you keep at it, you'll give yourself scars," Tante Mattie said and turned to face him now, her hands fisted on her hips._

_"So heal me all ready!" Remy complained._

_"I'm an old lady," Mattie told him. "I can't be wastin' my powers on a little thing like de chicken pox when there's others who need my help more."_

_Remy made a sound of disgust and continued on scratching. He squirmed against the couch cushions to scratch his back. Tante Mattie sighed and picked up two oven mitts from where they hung by the oven door. She marched over to Remy and snatched the book from his hand, setting the paperback down onto the chest that served as her coffee table. Mattie grabbed one of Remy's wrists and plunked an oven mitt down onto his hand. Then took his other hand and covered it as well._

_"Hey!" Remy said, and made to toss the mitts off._

_"You keep them on, or I'll tape 'em down t'your arms!" Tante Mattie threatened._

_"Okay, okay!" Remy said. "I won't scratch no more!"_

_Tante Mattie frowned down at him, her dark eyes watching him carefully. Remy scowled and looked at the oven mitts with disgust. Mattie's expression softened. She picked up his paperback book from where she had laid it open on the table. She pulled the rocking chair nearer to Remy's place on the couch and seated herself._

_"What'chu doin'?" Remy grumbled._

_"I'll read t'you, de rest of dis book," Tante Mattie responded._

_"I can read it myself," Remy snapped._

_"Not with them mitts on your hands, you can't," Mattie told him matter-of-factly._

_Remy let out a long-winded sigh of despair._

_"Where'd you leave off?" Mattie asked._

_Remy shrugged and stared at the ceiling despondently._

_Tante Mattie's eyes ran over the pages and she settled into the chair, ignoring Remy's sullen behavior. She began to read: "'You have a traitor there, Aiss – Alsan –.'"_

_"Aslan," Remy corrected._

_"'Aslan,'" Mattie repeated. "'Said the Witch. Of course everyone present knew that she meant Edmund. But Edmund had got past thinking about himself after all he'd been through and after the talk he'd had that morning. He just went on looking at Aslan. It didn't seem to matter what the Witch said.'"_

_Mattie interrupted herself: "Now what'd this Edmund go and do that made him a traitor?"_

_Remy turned onto his side, putting his mittened hands between his knees. "He was selfish...forgot about his family and went off wit' de Witch even though it was plain as day she was de Devil."_

_"Hmph," Mattie said, looking at the pages closely. "And who's dis Asland?"_

_"As_ lan _. He's de lion, like what it says on de cover," Remy told her. "_ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe _."_

_Tante Mattie was quiet for such a long time that Remy looked up at her. When their eyes met, she gave him a grim smile and brushed the hair that had fallen into his eyes back from his face. "Most folks get de chicken pox as little kids. It's worse when you're all grown up," she said._

_Remy regarded her solemnly for a moment. He hadn't been behaving particularly 'grown up' since he'd arrived at Mattie's home. But it wasn't often he was allowed to act his own age, not when so much was expected of him as a son, a thief, and the future leader of the Guild._

_"So," Mattie said, looking back to the book. "We've got de lion, we've got de witch...now where's dis wardrobe?"_

_"Maybe you should start at de beginning," Remy told her._

_"You're nearly done with this book," Mattie said, flipping through the final pages. "You really want to read it all again?"_

_"I'm not reading it. You are," Remy said and settled his head more comfortably onto the pillow. "I want to hear it from the beginning. Let's start over."_

Gambit was laying on his side with the side of his face pressed to the damp grass, staring at the underside of a large split log. He didn't know how long he had been laying there, though the cast of shadows and the encroaching coolness in the air told him the afternoon was waning. Though conscious, he continued to lay prone in a sort of a daze. He remembered so many things he had forgotten. There was the day his brother Henri had given Remy his old bicycle. He recalled getting the pocket watch he now held in his hand, a gift from the peculiar man known as The Witness. Then the first time he and Belle had kissed, and Remy realizing that Belle wasn't just a friend who was a girl, but something else. Gambit had spent so long trying not to remember the bad things of his past, that he'd forgotten all the good things as well. They brought with them a sort of sadness, that those times were gone and that he might never have a chance to have those things he remembered fondly again; family, companionship, love. He had spent a good deal of time convincing himself he didn't need any of these things, not with the trouble they often brought him.

With a groan, he sat up and rubbed a palm across his face. It wouldn't do to be caught laying face-down in the grass. There was grit in his eyebrows and beard. The hair on his head was stiff with dried sweat and sand. He really wanted a hot shower. But first he had to talk to Logan, and hope the X-Men didn't ask him too many awkward questions such as: Where have you been? and What have you been doing? Using the log to brace himself, Gambit climbed to his feet. He looked down at himself. His clothing was torn and soiled. When he slapped at the blades of wet grass clinging to his jeans, little clouds of dust formed. He sighed. For certain he was going to get interrogated. Maybe he should go jump in the lake.

In the distance, he heard a short scream. Gambit looked up, his eyes scanning the forest. He was immediately alert. Gambit's ears strained to hear another sound, but there was nothing. He started for the woods. Gambit walked quickly, ducking under low-hanging branches and skirting thick underbrush. The scream had come from the direction of the school. He thought it sounded like Jean. He told himself perhaps Kitty was running the young X-Men through their paces, that they were likely engaged in a training exercise. There was no reason to assume there was an emergency. Through the bare limbs of the trees, Gambit could see a blast of red light; one of Cyclops' optic beams arcing towards the sky. Birds flew in a panic away from the area. Gambit quickened his pace, slapping away tree limbs as he passed. He was just passing between two closely growing pines when something burst forward and collided with him.

There was a flash of his own pinkish power signature and Gambit was knocked off his feet by a repellant force, falling backwards into to leaf litter. When he sat up, he saw a figure struggling from out of the pine trees. When the figure turned, his and Gambit's eyes met.

"Holy Hell!" Gambit cried, finding that he was staring at the equally surprised and much younger version of himself. Gambit leapt to his feet and his younger self cast an anxious glance back from where he came. The younger Remy darted forward and Gambit stepped into his path. Gambit asked: "Where de hell do you think you're going?"

"Away from dis place!" his younger self answered. They both winced at the high-pitched squawk of the boy's voice.

Gambit tried to reach for his younger counterpart but found a sharp crackle of resistance when he attempted to make contact. The younger mutant staggered backwards and away from his older self, his eyes seeking out an escape route.

"Tell me what –!" Gambit began when he was cut off by a sharp yell. That was Cyclops! Gambit let out an impatient sound and said to his younger self: "Well, forget you!" He started towards the sounds of commotion.

"Don't!" his younger self cried after him. "He'll take you too!"

Gambit glanced over his shoulder at his younger self, who was standing there in frozen fear, his eyes wide in his pale face. Somehow Gambit knew who his younger self was talking about, who he was so afraid of. "Go ahead and run, coward! It's what you're best at!" Gambit snapped to himself. Then he ran forward into the forest.

Gambit kept low, keeping himself hidden for the most part by the underbrush. He moved as quickly and silently as possible through the deepening shadows. Up ahead, he could hear a voice speaking. With his jaw set, he continued, swallowing his own fears in favor of the need to protect the younger X-Men. He came to a break in the trees where he found three figures. Jean was facing away from him, kneeling on the forest floor. Her back was stiff and her hands were fisted at her sides. She seemed to be struggling against an unseen force. Cyclops was facing Gambit, but he was on his hands and knees, searching blindly in the leaves for his missing visor. Before the two teens was Sinister, looking more like his usual self rather than the Victorian dandy Gambit had encountered at the doughnut shop. Gambit wondered what had changed.

Sinister stepped forward and picked up Cyclops' visor. It had been inches from the young man's searching hands. When Cyclops lunged towards Sinister hoping to reclaim his glasses, Sinister casually put a hand to the teen's forehead and pushed him backwards. Cyclops landed on his rump beside Jean.

"Now that I have your attention," Sinister said.

"Who are you?" Cyclops barked. "What do you want?"

Gambit continued creeping along the edge of the clearing, staying out of sight. He took a playing card from his jacket and charged it slowly, then held it beside his head. The flow of energy through Gambit's body tended to disrupt most telepath's ability to detect his thoughts, at least when he wasn't being attacked directly.

"You don't remember me, Scott?" Sinister asked in a mocking tone. "Your handlers haven't been keeping you abreast of current events, it seems."

Gambit was nearly behind Sinister now. His eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for something he could use to his advantage. There was a stout tree he thought he might be able to climb. He hoped he could do so silently, it had been awhile since he'd climbed a tree.

"As for what I want...You may find our wants to align with one another," Sinister continued.

"I doubt that," Cyclops snapped.

"A future for the mutant race," Sinister said as if Cyclops hadn't interrupted. "One where we are no longer marginalized by society or threatened with extinction. A future where mutants aren't just merely surviving, but thriving."

"What's that got to do with us?" Cyclops asked.

"I will give you all the answers, Scott," Sinister said and stepped forward. He held the visor in his hands and extended it towards Cyclops. "Your lenses. They could use some updating."

Cyclops reached out hesitantly and found the visor with his fingertips. He quickly snatched it back and placed the lenses over his eyes. Gambit took the opportunity to scale the tree trunk. He crept forward along a tree branch.

"What did you do to Jean?" Cyclops demanded, glancing at Jean who was still held rigid, though her eyes darted from Sinister back to Cyclops.

"She is unharmed," Sinister said cooly. "I simply want to avoid any needless fighting. Instead, I would like you both to listen."

Gambit was not directly above Sinister, but it was the best vantage point he could achieve. He held the charged card loosely in his fingers, preparing to let it fly.

"I promise I will only take a moment of your time," Sinister said and reached out a hand towards Cyclops' shoulder. "If you would just come –."

"No one's goin' anywhere wit'out a signed permission slip," Gambit said and as Sinister turned, the charged card he held snapped from his fingers. The card detonated against Sinister's chest and the man staggered. Gambit leapt from the tree branch.

"Go!" Gambit shouted at Cyclops and Jean, who had suddenly found herself free from Sinister's telekinetic grip. "Get out of here!"

Gambit landed upon Sinister, driving him to the ground. When the two hit the turf, Gambit thrust a second charged card into Sinister's reforming chest. One of Sinister's arms came up and swept Gambit aside. The second card exploded with a muffled bang. Gambit glanced up to see the two teens had not moved. They were going to squander the brief moment he had given them to escape. His eyes met Cyclops'. "I said _go!_ " he shouted. " _Now!_ That's a goddamned order!"

"We'll bring reinforcements!" Cyclops said and then seized Jean by her wrist and dragged her from the clearing.

Gambit didn't have a moment to enjoy the fact that someone had actually _listened_ to him for once. Even with most of his chest and part of his jaw missing, Sinister was still fast. Gambit tried to jerk backwards, but Sinister's hand had closed down on the front of his shirt. There was a sound of tearing fabric as Gambit was pulled off his feet and then tossed across the clearing. He struck a tree trunk and fell forward. He wheezed in a gasp as the breath was knocked from his body. Gambit struggled to regain his feet as Sinister reformed on the opposite side of the clearing. The pair faced one another.

"LeBeau," Sinister said calmly as his jaw regained its shape. "You look as though you've been dragged by a team of wild horses."

"It was just de one mule," Gambit gasped, holding his side as he wheezed. He folded over and retrieved another handful of cards, coughing to disguise the movement. In an instant, he straightened and raised his arm to throw his cards. He found his hand caught in a powerful grip. Someone had snuck up on him from behind.

Before him, Sinister's eyes grew wide. Then his expression became strange. Suddenly, it seemed that Sinister became distorted, his face and form warped. While he observed this strange transformation, Gambit struggled against the restraining grip on his arm and fought the other arm encircling his chest.

"What!?" Gambit gasped.

Sinister was speechless, which made Gambit realize something was certainly amiss with him. Then Sinister split in two, pulling apart as if made from putty. From between the two halves of the squirming mass that was Sinister, Gambit could see Jean standing there, the adult version. Her face was a frozen mask, concentrating on the task of tearing Sinister apart. Jean strode forward, her purplish-red hair a nimbus of energy brought alive by the telekinetic forces she wielded. Gambit was held immobile as he was forced forward into the clearing.

"Well done, Five," said the voice from over Gambit's shoulder. Gambit went rigid. He realized he was being held by Sinister...a different Sinister. Sinister tossed him forward and Gambit fell to the clearing floor on his hands and knees. Jean's eyes rose to meet those of Sinister Prime's. Her eyes were flat and her full lips turned into a frown. A bead of blood ran from her left nostril.

"You cannot think to attack me, Five," Sinister Prime said. "And you cannot disobey me either. You are _my_ creation, _my_ clone. Should I ask you to do anything – anything at all – and you think to disobey me, you would only find yourself resetting to your default, and more biddable self."

Gambit righted himself, looking from Sinister Prime to Jean. Jean's eyes were wide with fear and her head shook in a silent 'no.'

"So when I ask you to," Sinister Prime raised a languid hand to point at Gambit, "kill this misera –."

Gambit spun and let fly the pocket watch he held in his grip. The watch flashed through the air and detonated against Sinister Prime's jaw. Sinister Prime arched backwards, his hands flying upward as he fell. Jean nearly collapsed forward, stumbling into the clearing towards Gambit.

"Remy!" she gasped as he gripped her by her upper arms.

"Jean! We have to –!" Gambit began, casting a glance back over at Sinister Prime, who was even then regaining his feet.

Jean's eyes flicked from one Sinister to the other, like a panicked bird in a cage, seeking escape. "What – what are we going to to?"

" _Chère_ , look at me," Gambit said and claimed her face in both of his hands. "Calm down."

Jean's eyes found his and her face grew still. She inhaled slowly. "What are you thinking?"

He studied her carefully. "You tell me," he said. Jean's hands covered Gambit's and she took a shaking breath. She nodded slowly.

Then the two of them vanished in a flash of light.

* * *

Next time: Where there's smoke...


	43. Where There's Smoke

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Past, Three Weeks Ago**

With the shock of having found a dead clone in Gambit's apartment, plus continued efforts trying to locate the genuine Remy LeBeau, Rogue had forgotten about the strange old man in the news stand, the one whose newspaper had seemingly predicted the future. It wasn't until later, frustrated with her inability to find a trace of Gambit or the mysterious redhead accompanying him, that Rogue recalled the enigmatic gentleman. He had told her something, hadn't he...about it being too late to help Gambit, but that "the boy" still needed her? Rogue could barely remember the exchange. She thought to return to the shop and question the man further, but when she arrived at the alleyway, she found the shop closed. She stood on the front step of the shop and rattled the door latch. The door was locked. Rogue leaned close to the glass. The window had been soaped and what little she could see of the room beyond told her that the shop had been closed for some time.

She stood back from the shop window and put her hands on her hips, glaring at her own distorted reflection in the glass. What had the shopkeeper been talking about? Of course the man had to go and vanish right when it was most inconvenient, just like Remy LeBeau. Rogue knew of at least one place she could go to find plenty of youngsters, The Jean Grey School. She could at least start there and hope for a clue. She had a sinking suspicion in her gut that told her that she already knew what "boy" the man had been talking about.

When Rogue arrived at the school she found it to be involved in slightly-more-than-usual chaos. With some alarm, she followed a firetruck through the school's front gate and onto the grounds. Rogue saw the cluster of students on the lawn surrounded by a protective circle of adults. Logan was among them, looking not at all happy about the firetruck's arrival. Rogue parked her car some distance away and walked across the soggy turf towards the students. A second emergency vehicle was already parked before the main entry on the school's curved driveway. Several firefighters stood about, dressed in their bright yellow reflective gear, staring in bafflement at the school and all its various towers and appendages. They seemed particularly perplexed about the giant ice mountain that perpetually surrounded one wing of the school. When Rogue finally reached the other staff members, it was to see Logan embroiled in a discussion with a taciturn fire marshal.

"This has got to be the most disorganized evacuation I've ever witnessed," the fire marshal said. He was wearing a blue uniform, a hat which concealed his eyes, and a disgruntled expression.

"It's a false alarm," Logan answered. "One of the students pulled the fire alarm. You don't need to be here."

"Pulling a fire alarm without an emergency constitutes a felony in the state of New York," the fire marshal told Logan. "Are all the students and staff accounted for?"

Logan surveyed the student body and scratched his head, his expression a picture of irritation. Rachel appeared at Logan's side and whispered something into his ear. Logan now looked agitated. Rogue felt herself cringe as the fire marshal waited with increasing disapproval. He wrote something down on his clipboard.

"Missing?" Logan erupted. "What? The both of them?"

"Well, I _told_ them to use the buddy system!" Rachel answered.

The fire marshal snapped his pen down onto his clipboard. "I'm citing you in violation of several fire codes," he said. "You can expect _heavy_ penalties. Now, no one is to enter the building until I've cleared it." He then began to turn and start for the school, but not before glancing up in Rogue's direction. The man ducked his head and quickly looked away.

Rogue began to make her way through the milling students towards Logan and Rachel. They were joined shortly by Hank.

"Why would they go running off?" Logan asked.

Rachel gave a half-shrug. "Well...teenagers. You know. Do you need to sit in on one of Remy's sex-ed talks?"

Logan threw his hands up in the air. "Forget it! Go find 'em! We can't afford any penalties!"

Rachel held her hands up defensively. "Relax, will you?"

"What about our other – _absentee,_ shall we say?" Hank said in an undertone.

"He can't have got far," Logan said, his eyes scanning the nearby forest. "Not in his condition. It's possible he hasn't left the house, let alone the grounds."

Rogue looked away from the three teachers to the school. The fire marshal had disappeared through the open front door. It was probably unwise to let a human wander around without first warning him about the various "hall monitors" they had throughout the school. She looked over to the other firefighters. It appeared that two of them were conferring amongst themselves, staring up with trepidation at the school. It didn't seem like they were willing to follow the fire marshal. Logan and the other two teachers were discussing plans for how to recover their missing students. Rogue headed towards the building. No one directed her to stop as she climbed the front steps and passed through the door.

Once inside, Rogue looked to the hallways leading right and left, then across the foyer. She glanced up the ascending staircase. The house was uncharacteristically silent. She started across the foyer, searching for where the fire marshal had gone. She heard a door close softly from somewhere towards the back of the foyer, beneath the grand staircase. She hurried towards the sound. Rogue came to the stairwell that led down to the lower floors. She opened the door to the landing. Rogue leaned over the metal handrail to peer down the staircase. She saw a shadow pass by on the landing below. The figure paused, examining the mandatory placard diagramming the floor plan and emergency exits that hung by the door. Where was he going? Rogue wondered. She waited until the man had vanished from sight before she followed. At the bottom of the staircase, Rogue put her hand to the door latch. She slowly opened the door a fraction and peered out. She saw the fire marshal standing at the center of the corridor, facing away from her and carefully studying his surroundings. He was no longer wearing his hat and blue coat. Rogue saw that he had discarded his appropriated clothing under the staircase. Rogue scrutinized the man from where she hid behind the door. The man was now clad in a half-trench over dark denim trousers. Rogue could see that he was an older man, his long hair shot through with gray; he was physically fit with broad shoulders.

The man seemed to come to some decision because he began to slowly walk down the hall. Rogue felt a sensation of familiarity; she recognized his way of dress, his gait and the way he carried himself. The man very much resembled Remy LeBeau in all but stature. The man had turned a corner at the end of the hallway and Rogue followed. She paused at the end of the corridor to see where he would go next. He passed into the infirmary. Rogue crept carefully down the hall. When she reached the infirmary door, she peered through the window to see the man inside. He was looking at a clipboard he had taken from a plastic holder on the wall, the one nearest to an observation room. He replaced it and picked up the next clipboard. Apparently, it was not giving him the answers he was looking for because he put it back as well. There were four clipboards in all and he checked each one. The man turned and scanned the rest of the room. He spied a plastic tent-covered area and proceeded towards it. There he found another clipboard. He scanned the papers clipped there, flipping through them. Rogue stepped into the room.

She put her hands on her hips and asked: "So, fire marshal, where's the fire?"

Jean-Luc glanced at her sidelong, his face partially concealed by the raised collar of his coat. He did not show any surprise at her appearance. "I'm no expert, but I'd say: where dere'ssmoke."

"What're you doin' here, Jean-Luc?" Rogue asked and took a few steps towards the man. She bore no animosity towards him, but she knew him to be a secretive and manipulative person.

Jean-Luc replaced the clipboard back into its holder. "I'm lookin' for my son," he said.

"You and me both," Rogue said. "Why would you think he'd be down here?"

"I got a call," Jean-Luc began, "tellin' me he was sick." He turned towards the quarantined room. "And he wasn't out on de lawn wit' de rest of the staff."

"Sick?" Rogue repeated. Apparently, she was not in the loop. She watched Jean-Luc push aside the plastic curtain. There was a warning sign posted at the door behind the curtain. "Jean-Luc, Ah don't think you should go in there."

He ignored her and pushed open the swinging door. "I have to see him," Jean-Luc said.

Rogue let out an exasperated breath and started after him. She caught the door as it swung back towards her and pushed it open. She found Jean-Luc standing in an empty room. He looked at the empty bed with the uncoupled restraints, the tousled bedclothes, and the broken medical equipment.

"He's not here," Jean-Luc said, mostly to himself. He turned to Rogue. "Where is he?"

"Jean-Luc, Ah didn't even know he was sick," Rogue said. "Ah have no idea where he is."

Jean-Luc's blue eyes flicked around the room, finally coming to rest on Rogue. "De chart said he has chronic meningitis. I got no idea what that even means. It said he had a seizure. Something about a puncture. They _operated_ on him."

This came as a surprise to Rogue. "Oh, mah goodness," she said, feeling a sensation of dread. "Well, we've gotta find him. He's likely contagious. We can't have him infect the other kids."

Jean-Luc's gaze narrowed on her. "D'ya think my boy's such a dummy that he'd go about risking the lives of children?"

"Of course not, Jean-Luc but –," Rogue began.

"Somethin's _happened_ to him, that's plain as day," Jean-Luc told Rogue and brushed past her into the infirmary. "He's been taken!"

"Ah sincerely doubt that," Rogue was close on his heels. "Run off again, more like. He might not realize how bad off he is. He's just a little kid."

Jean-Luc abruptly turned. "What in God's name are you talkin' about?" Jean-Luc asked, his expression cross. "He's nearly thirty years old!"

Rogue's mouth opened to retort, but seeing the confusion on Jean-Luc's face she gathered herself for a better response. "Nobody told you about – about Remy?" she asked.

Jean-Luc's face became still and his eyes grew cold. "I was told he was sick," he responded flatly. "That he asked for me. That's all."

"Maybe we should sit down a sec," Rogue began tentatively.

"We don't got time for that," he snapped.

"Jean-Luc," Rogue said. "Remy's – uhm... How do Ah...? Well, he's a little boy, no bigger than yea high." Rogue held her hand out flat to demonstrate young Remy's approximate height.

Jean-Luc's brows came together. "He's a boy? But – that's –." Jean-Luc seemed at a loss for words. Suddenly, he said with exasperation: "What'd you people do to him dis time?"

Rogue raised her hands defensively. "Nothin'!" she answered. "We found him that way. He got lost in time or some such!"

"I don't...," Jean-Luc began, then his eyes seemed to lose focus.

"Now just think for a second," Rogue said. "Was there ever a time when Remy was a boy that he up and disappeared?"

"Well – there might've been more'n a few times he'd go off on his own."

"And you never thought t'ask him where he went?" Rogue asked.

Jean-Luc looked affronted. "I don't appreciate your tone," he answered. "And I'm not gonna stand here and let you patronize me." With that he turned and began to stalk from the room.

"Jean-Luc, wait," Rogue pursued the older thief from the room. "We'll find him faster if Ah help you look for him. Where would Remy go, if he was hurt or scared, when he was little?"

"Mattie's house, I suppose. But that's not an option," Jean-Luc said and came to the elevator. He pressed the button to call the car, then turned to look at her. "Where's de highest point in this place?"

"Not countin' the security platforms, Ah'd say the bell tower," she said.

"Then we'll go to de bell tower," Jean-Luc said as the bell chimed, announcing the elevator's arrival. He stepped into the car and Rogue followed.

"So when Remy would...go off on his own...ya didn't worry after him?" Rogue asked.

"Of course I did," Jean-Luc answered, staring forward at the closed elevator doors, his arms crossed.

"And he never told you where he ran off to?" she continued.

Jean-Luc let out an impatient sound. "He'd likely have some story or another," he said. "Though I suppose there was one time..."

"Yeah?" Rogue prompted.

Jean-Luc glanced at her. "Once he seemed to have vanished out in de bayou for a couple days. He told me he fell and hit his head. Pretty sure he was lying."

When the elevator let them off on the top floor, Rogue walked him toward the spiral stair to take them up to the bell tower. Jean-Luc continued: "Not long after that, he ran off again. We found him at de local hospital. Very sick. I blamed myself. I sent him there t'do volunteer work. He must've picked up somethin' while he was there. Mattie healed him. He swore he'd rather die than see de inside of a hospital again."

The pair emerged into spring sunshine. The landscape spread out below. The students and teachers were clustered on the lawn. In the distance a breeze stirred the budding trees.

"I thought he might have been up here," Jean-Luc murmured to himself.

"You haven't seen the adult Remy anywhere, have you?" Rogue asked.

"With my own eyes, no," Jean-Luc replied. "But I spoke with someone who's been keeping him company. The last I'd heard, he'd gone off to a doughnut shop and now that shop manager is dead. I'm more'n a little worried."

"Now we have two Gambits to worry about," Rogue said, her hands braced on the stone railing, her eyes scanning the scenery below.

"One turned my hair gray, with two, I'll find myself bald."

Not far into the trees beside the lake, a blast of red light arced into the air. Trees stirred vigorously as if in a localized storm.

"That looked like Cyclops' power signature," Rogue said. The blast was followed by two explosions.

"Remy?" Jean-Luc speculated.

"We gotta get down there," Rogue said and turned toward the front lawn. "LOGAN!" she shouted.

" _Dieu_ , you've got some lungs on you, girl," Jean-Luc said, holding a hand over his ear.

Rogue waved her arms as Wolverine spotted her in the bell tower. Now realizing the missing students they were looking for were Scott Summers and Remy LeBeau she shouted: "The lake! They're by the lake!" Trusting that Wolverine's super-hearing would pick up her words, she spun to head down the staircase. However, Jean-Luc had already vaulted the belltower's balustrade and was running toward the roof ledge. In the distance, she could see the young Jean Grey and Scott Summers running from the forest.

"Ah miss flyin'," Rogue said to herself and skiddered after Jean-Luc. She halted at the roofline and watched the thief scale the corner quoins on the school's facade like a ladder. "And invulnerability would be nice too."

~oOo~

Remy heard the explosions and his elder self shout: " _That's a goddamn order!_ " He stumbled to a halt, breathing hard. What was he doing, running away? He couldn't leave Jean to that monster. With a staggering start, he turned back. No coat, no weapons. His eyes cast around for something to throw. Pinecones? Rocks? He seized handfuls of forest debris and ran to the clearing. Remy came to a stop at the last few trees and bushes. There was an intense flash of light. He held up his arm to shield his eyes. When he lowered his arm and blinked spots from his vision, he saw that the clearing was empty. He walked forward slowly.

"Jean?" he asked, his heart filling with dread. Did Sinister take her? In the center of the clearing, he turned slowly to scan the trees. "Jean!" he shouted.

"They've gone," said a voice. Remy shivered. The pale man now stood before him. Remy changed his stance, holding tight to the pebbles in one hand, feeling the charge grow.

"Vanished!" announced another voice. "With my precious Number Five!" Remy glanced sideways. A second pale man stood to his left. Remy groaned in despair.

The two Sinisters looked at one another, and then returned their gazes to Remy. "Are you going to simply stand there, idiot? Grab the boy!" one Sinister commanded.

"I do not take orders!" declared the foppish Sinister.

The other pale man moved forward with inhuman speed, reaching a hand to grab Remy by the arm. Remy responded by letting the fist full of charged rocks fly into his face. It did not deter Sinister in the slightest and Remy found himself being held by an arm in midair. His feet lashed out, kicking ineffectually at Sinister's midsection.

Seeing his more motivated doppelganger take Remy prompted the other into action. The second Sinister came forward. "Give him to me, I will finish this nonsense!" Remy's other arm was seized.

"Aaugh!" Remy screamed, finding himself in a nightmarish game of tug-of-war with him as the rope. At a total loss as to what to do now, he screamed: "Help! Help me!"

To his ultimate surprise, two blasts of red light struck the pair of Sinisters, nearly at the same time. Remy felt as if his arms were going to be ripped from their sockets as the force of the blasts took the two Sinisters to the ground. One Sinister had released his arm entirely and seemed worse off than the other. Remy yanked himself free of the second and scrambled backwards like a crab, scrabbling away from the two men. Though he was fearful of taking his eyes from his opponents he cast a glance backward to see the source of the two blasts. Scott stood just to his right, his visor glowing with his recently used powers. On Remy's other side stood Rogue, red light swirling from her eyes. Behind them there came the sound of running through the undergrowth. Several voices called out: "Over here, they're over here!"

Remy looked back towards the two pale men. One seemed to have completely deteriorated, his remains a smoking ruin. The other was slowly standing, his face a mask. With the arrival of rescuers, he seemed to admit defeat and simply vanished, as if he were stepping sideways into space. Remy searched around fearfully, as if there could be yet another pale man hiding in the forest. Instead, he saw a familiar figure striding toward him.

"Poppa?" he squawked, hardly daring to believe his eyes. He climbed to his feet as his father stopped abruptly, staring at Remy as if he'd seen a spook. Indeed, his father's hair did seem a lot grayer than Remy remembered it. "Poppa!" he said. "You're here, you came!"

"Remy," Jean-Luc finally said, and came forward to embrace him. "My God, it really is you!"

Remy felt as if he could weep with relief. He held his father with what strength he could muster. The only thing keeping his tears in check was the sight of Wolverine appearing, along with the huge woman Joanna, Kitty, Bobby, Hank, several students who seemed eager to join a fight, and even two firefighters. "You came t'help me?" he murmured wondrously to himself, unable to believe it.

Jean-Luc held him at arm's length, his blue eyes searching Remy's face. He shook his head in disbelief. "I don't know what you did to end up here, Remy," he said finally.

"I want to go home," Remy said, his voice wavering.

Jean-Luc put his hands to Remy's face. "You're burnin' up with fever, son," he said.

Remy sank to his knees and Jean-Luc followed him until they were both kneeling in the grass. Remy rested his forehead on his father's shoulder and closed his eyes. There was a small crowd gathering around them now. There were so many voices, people asking questions, postulations about Sinister's whereabouts. He heard Jean say: "I'm so sorry, we should never have gone off. I didn't know how sick he was!"

"Can I stay at Tante's house?" Remy mumbled. He felt the strength fade from his arms. His father held him more tightly. Remy felt himself fading. Without the energy sustained by near constant fear, he found himself boneless and weak with relief.

"I don't think you'll make it that far," Jean-Luc told him and stood, carrying Remy in his arms as if he were a small child. Jean-Luc turned to the people gathered around the clearing. His eyes found Rogue's. Jean-Luc's voice was desperate. "What can we do? He's dying."

Rogue rushed forward, followed closely by Wolverine and Beast. "The infirmary -," Hank began.

"He needs a healer," Jean-Luc responded.

"Ah know," Rogue said. "You said... Tante Mattie healed him, when he was sick. Ah can take him there. Take him back."

"Rogue, a physician," Hank insisted. "Let's take him to the infirmary now."

"What're you thinkin', Rogue?" Wolverine asked. Rogue silently thanked him for trusting her.

"Ah know how to get him back home. In the right time, in the right hands." Rogue looked down at the young Remy's strained face. His dark eyes opened slowly to look at her.

"It'll be okay," she told him softly, and moved his hair from his forehead. Then she leaned forward and gently kissed him, in the little furrow between his brows.

~oOo~

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Eleven Years Ago

It was raining when Rogue arrived. It was for the best, as the storm drove people into buildings and cars and Rogue's sudden appearance went unnoticed. Lightening flickered in the sky and thunder rumbled. Rogue was between two of the wings that made up Charity Hospital. She held Remy in her arms. He was unconscious, his head lay against her shoulder. He'd lost consciousness after Rogue had touched him and borrowed his powers. His memories played like a forgotten television screen flickering at the back of her mind.

Rogue took a few steps toward the emergency room entrance, her tread awkward under Remy's dead weight. She'd borrowed Frenzy's strength to help bear his prone form; young Jean's telepathy to maintain her anonymity. She needed to make sure Remy was left in good hands before his powers to time-travel faded. She didn't think she'd be able to touch him again without stealing the last of his ebbing strength.

An emergency vehicle was waiting at the ER entrance, red lights flashing on the wet pavement, headlights cutting through the rain. Rogue hurried over the EMTs, who were packing away equipment into the back of the vehicle.

"Help," Rogue said as she moved toward them. The pair, a man and woman, took one look at the prone form in her arms and snapped into action. The gurney inside the ambulance was pulled forward, it's legs protracting to hit the pavement with a sharp snap. Rogue placed Remy onto the cot.

The EMTs jogged inside the hospital through the sliding glass doors, wheeling the gurney. Once inside, Rogue looked about the lobby, getting her bearings. Jean-Luc said that Tante Mattie was usually in the pediatric ward. Today a child would be brought to the ER, and Mattie would come here instead.

With the arrival of a new patient, one of the nurses stood hurriedly at the nurse's station. She signalled to another. They wheeled a second gurney from the back room, banging it through a pair of swinging doors. The EMTs transferred Remy to the new bed. Rogue looked down at him. He looked ghastly pale under the fluorescent lights, his eyes dark and sunken.

"What happened?" the nurse asked.

"He's very sick," Rogue told the nurses, and with Jean's powers, placed the thought "chronic meningitis" into their heads. "It came on suddenly. He had some kind of fit and passed out."

They began wheeling the bed into a hallway. Rogue followed alongside.

"Patient's name?" the second nurse barked, and Rogue provided all the details she could. "Relation to the patient?"

"Ah, uhm, Ah'm a friend of the family," Rogue stammered. "Ah was takin' care of him for a bit. His momma's here though. In the hospital. Mattie Baptiste. She's a volunteer?"

The two nurses exchanged a look. "We know her," the first nurse said. "This is her boy? Her Remy?"

The second nurse was monitoring Remy's vitals. She called out a series of orders. They were joined by a young man in surgical scrubs. He helped the first nurse steer the gurney bearing Remy into a room with several other people, all surrounded by curtains hung from tracks in the ceiling. The man in scrubs pulled the curtain closed before Rogue could enter. The first nurse stopped her at the door.

"We'll have Mattie down here in no time," the nurse said. "Family only, I'm sorry."

"But-," Rogue began. "How can Ah-."

"You've done everything you could," the nurse said. "He'll be in good hands. We'll do everything we can for Remy."

Rogue wrung her hands. "He'll be okay," she murmured to herself. "He's gonna be just fine."

The nurse was leading her away, back to the lobby. "You can wait here. I'll let Mattie know you're here, so she can update you on Remy's condition."

Rogue knew she couldn't afford to wait. "Thank you," she said. The nurse gave her a quick smile and turned to leave. "Wait!" Rogue said and the nurse paused. "Ah have something of his." Rogue twisted the diamond ring she still had on her finger.

The nurse looked at her curiously as she accepted the ring. "An engagement ring?"

"It was his mamma's," Rogue lied. "Ah mean, his birth mother."

The nurse shook her head a little, still confused. But Rogue was walking away. She could tell by the fading of Remy's thoughts she didn't have much time to return to the present.

Once outside, she took one last look at the enormous hospital. It seemed every light burned in every window. Emergency vehicles rushed past, spraying water from their tires. Staff members rushed between the two wings, ducking their heads from the rain. In the future, Rogue's present, this building would be dark and empty, shuttered by a terrible storm, government ineptitude, and a society that ignored the basic needs of the people who needed the most help.

Rogue hadn't suffered the injuries or sickness Remy had. She had access to his full powers, better control. It was not hard to find the golden thread that tied her back to her place in the present. With a deep breath, she claimed the thread, pulled the surge of power into herself and sent herself forward, leaving a space in the air where no rain fell. For a second, the ghost of her form hovered there and then that too vanished.


	44. Mamas' Boys

**Boston, Massachusetts**

**The Past, One Week Ago**

Carl Denti tapped on the hospital room door. He held his coat awkwardly in his opposite arm. "Hello?" he called softly, in case the inhabitant inside was resting.

"Hello?" came the response. "Yes? Please come in."

Carl approached the privacy curtain and lightly pushed it aside. "Ah, uhm hello," he stammered. There was a woman sitting upright in a hospital bed. She wore a hospital gown and had an IV in her wrist. Otherwise, she looked composed, her face alert and her brown hair neatly pulled into a knot at her nape.

"Why, it's my knight in shining armor," she said with her soft southern-accented voice.

Carl momentarily met her warm gaze and then looked away. "Just in the right place at the right time, ma'am," he said. He might have blushed.

Her mouth curved into a grin. "I owe you my life. Both of you," she said, and turned her attention to include the second man in her room. Denti had missed him behind the curtain. Denti recognized the man in his rumpled suit and red glasses. It was Matthew Murdock. Murdock was placing some papers into a briefcase. He snapped it shut as Denti approached.

Murdock cocked his head in Denti's direction. "This is the man that called in the emergency?" he asked.

The woman, Helen Moreux, declined her head in affirmation. "A moment later, and I wouldn't be alive now," she said.

Denti was having a hard time meeting her steady hazel gaze, her beautiful smile. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with the information he had about Helen. There were so many complications. Here she was in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound that very nearly killed her. On the other hand, she contracted a killer to assassinate her former lover, Honoré DesJarlais: current whereabouts unknown. And then again she was Remy LeBeau's biological mother and a victim of this Black Womb project. And Denti might have attempted to kill her son on a few occasions before having a change of heart. But also, she was a white-collar criminal who should be charged with embezzlement and insider trading. Oh, and she was very, very attractive. Denti was ill-at-ease. He preferred things to be black and white. He was beginning to fear that Gambit might be having some kind of negative influence on him.

Failing to hear a response from Denti, Matt stated: "All in a day's work, eh, my good man!" and attempted to clap Denti on the shoulder. He missed somewhat and knocked the coat from Denti's arm. The coat had been concealing a small peach poodle.

Helen's kind smile transformed into one of joy. "My Chou-Chou!" she cried.

The dog wriggled out from under Denti's arm and leapt onto the hospital bed. It crawled to its owner, whining and shaking, its little pom-pom tail wagging furiously.

"Oh, my sweet little Chou," Helen crooned to the animal, picking him up and hugging him. "My sweet boy! I was worried sick about you! Thank you, thank you for taking care of him!"

"You snuck a dog into a hospital?" Murdock asked Denti.

"You've heard of companion animals?" Denti attempted gruffness. "I did give it a bath first. And _your_ business here?"

"I'm representing Ms. Moreux," Murdock replied and extended his hand in Denti's direction. Denti suspected the man fully knew where he was standing, but the offered hand was slightly off to the left. "Matthew Murdock. Ms. Moreux is my client. I'm handling her affairs. And you are?"

Denti shook Murdock's hand, aware of the man's identity and his rumored alter-ego. It was making an incredible impression on Denti that this same man had been involved in the nearly-botched affair with NABC weeks before. Murdock currently represented the whistleblower in the pending case and was providing a safe-haven to the man. And Murdock was the last person to have seen both Gambit and the mysterious red-headed clone...not to mention, Denti's Cadillac, briefcase and laptop. That Murdock just happened to be here, now, and employed by Helen Moreux was a coincidence that boggled the mind.

"Carl Denti," Denti eventually replied, returning Murdock's handshake.

"Don't make any sudden moves now," Murdock joked at Denti's slow and measured responses. "Now, what brought a government employee to my client's door? Fortunate as it was, I have to wonder what someone involved in Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs was doing visiting my client."

Denti's mouth opened to reply. Of course Murdock would know who he was. He glanced at Helen, who was stroking her dog's head. Her dark eyes were guarded now. "I'd like to ask her to testify," Denti said slowly. "On allegations against Honoré DesJarlais."

"Ah!" Murdock said amicably, "Well, we can certainly discuss that at another time. Of course, the Senator would need to be found first. So you may not need to trouble my client any further."

Denti could take the hint, so instead turned to Helen. "Ma'am, there's another matter I wished to discuss with you. A personal one." He shot a glance at Murdock. "If we could speak privately?"

"Personal?" Helen echoed. "In what regard?"

Denti didn't know how to begin to broach the topic of Black Womb and her biological son. Certainly not in front of an audience. Gambit would certainly not thank him for discussing it in front of Daredevil, whom it seemed he bore some animosity.

"Hel _lo_!" came a merry voice from behind the privacy curtain. "Delivery for Ms. Mo _reux_!" The curtain twitched aside to reveal a massive bouquet of roses.

"Oh!" Helen said with surprise. "My goodness. Those are lovely. Here, can you place them here?" She indicated the table beside her bed.

The delivery man came forward, passing before Denti and Murdock, and placed the arrangement at her bedside. "My pleasure," he told her and then moved back to the curtain. He deposited a sneeze in the crook of his elbow. He was tall, narrowly built, with long white hair. His age was difficult to place, somewhere between late-50s and one hundred and fifty. He wore small smoke-colored glasses and an odd assembly of clothing. Denti thought he looked something like a geriatric Jedi.

"Oh, it's you!" Helen said with pleasure. "What a nice surprise. How neighborly of you."

The man bowed slightly at the waist. "Think nothing of it! I'm glad to see you out of de woods, m'dear. Ah, look who else is here. It's my Plan C and Plan D. What a coinkydink."

Denti was stymied by that statement, but Murdock turned in the older man's direction. "You're that shopkeeper. The one who threw me out into the street."

"The very same," The Witness said.

"Plan C?" Denti repeated.

Helen waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Don't let him bait you," she said, smiling. "He loves talking about how clever he is."

"Rude," the older man replied, absently patting the little dog when it came over to him. "After I come all dis way bearing gifts. When you know I'm allergic to flowers and went to the trouble anyway."

"But not dogs," Murdock said dryly.

"Poodles are hypoallergenic. His little boy is just the same...allergic. But he plays with Chou-Chou in our courtyard all the time. This is my neighbor," Helen informed Denti, nodding at The Witness. "He's mostly harmless."

Denti asked: "Did you happen to witness the shooting in Ms. Moreux's home? Did you see the assailant?"

"Ever vigilant, Agent Denti!" The Witness declared, as the dog ate a snack he'd produced from his coat pocket.

"How do you-," Denti began.

"He is a mutant," Helen said. "He sees multiple timelines at once. If you keep asking him questions he'll just continue to confuse you."

"Spoilsport," The Witness grumbled. "See if I give you any more hot stock tips!" and he laid a finger alongside his nose and winked at her.

"So what was Plan A and Plan B?" Murdock asked, attempting to wrangle the conversation.

"Plan A is always like...the first pancake. Too weird, misshapen. Got to throw it out. But Plan B! Ah...a true flower of de South. Plan B is your dinner date next week," The Witness said, happy to be answering questions in spite of Helen's warning. "I recommend you avoid the vichyssoise, you'll regret it if you don't."

Murdock's mouth opened, but then snapped shut.

"Belle's a feisty one," the man continued. "Gird your loins."

"Who _are_ you?" Murdock said.

"I go by many names…" the man began enigmatically.

"His name is Jack," Helen interrupted. "He also calls himself 'The Witness,' because he thinks he knows everything."

The Witness shot her a disgruntled look. "You're ruining my _je ne sais quoi_."

"You said there were gifts," Helen said. " _Gifts_ , plural."

The Witness brightened. "Ah, yes! I nearly forgot!"

"You did not," Helen responded.

The Witness held up his hands, first displaying his palms, then the backs of his hands, demonstrated to all that he had nothing up his sleeves, and then with a flourish, whipped aside the privacy curtain (all of which was lost on Matt Murdock). "Ta da!" The Witness said.

There was nothing there.

"There's nothing there," Denti stated the obvious.

"What?" The Witness said, looking at the space where he intended his surprise to be. "Where did that little-oh, there you are!" The man momentarily disappeared behind the curtain and reemerged, dragging with him an unwilling teenage boy.

"Ta da!" he announced again, with another theatrical flourish.

There was a moment of profound silence as Denti and Helen stared at the newcomer. Murdock might have twitched his nose. Then they all began speaking at once.

"How is that-is that-?" Denti stammered.

"Oh my God, my God!" Helen exclaimed. "But it's not possible!"

"Oh no, not _another_ one!" Murdock groaned.

"Yes! Yes it is!" the Witness said, answering all their questions. "This, my friends, is what we call...a _paradox_." He put his hands down onto the shoulders of the teenager who was looking more and more nervous. "This poor, time-lost lad managed to write himself out of his own timeline. An amazing feat of utmost stupidity. And instead of erasing himself from existence, as one would imagine, he continued to live on - thanks to me - in a bubble outside of time. But then, through no small effort on my part, I determined a window of opportunity where it would be safe for him to emerge without creating too much temporal turbulence."

"Good grief," Murdock said, moving his glasses up his nose.

Helen was not really listening to what her neighbor had to say. Her eyes were affixed on the fifteen-year-old boy before her.

"This, young man, is your biological mother," he told the young Remy. "I'm afraid you really screwed the pooch (pardon my expression)," he told the dog, "and as they say, you really can't go back home again."

"But-," the boy began.

"I suppose I _could_ bring you to Jean-Luc, but the poor man has suffered enough," The Witness rambled on, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "When you went back to the past to coach your younger self, you managed to make a mess of things. There was no future for you to go back to. So, you're stuck."

The Witness continued: "Helen Moreux, this is your son. Sorry he's fifteen years older than when you last saw him, but as you can see, he still needs the guiding hand of a loving adult."

Mother and son regarded one another. Helen's eyes began to fill with tears. "You have no idea," she said slowly, "how much I have missed you." She tentatively reached out a shaking hand.

The time-lost Remy glanced back at The Witness. "Don't be shy," the older man said encouragingly.

The boy took a few steps forward and awkwardly touched the woman's hand before releasing it. "You're my...my m-mother?" he asked, having a hard time forming the word. "But...I never knew. I figured you didn't-didn't want me."

Helen shook her head. "That couldn't be further from the truth."

"Sit down," The Witness gestured for Remy to sit on the chair at Helen's bedside. "Get to know each other. I suppose you might require a new name. Grant, was it?"

Remy looked horrified. He'd traveled back into his own past to try to help his younger self escape his responsibilities, found himself cornered by a horrifying pale man claiming to be his father, and then had The Witness pop up to whisk him away at the last moment. He'd had the misfortune to lose his family, his home, and now his identity. The Witness had impressed upon him the gravity of his poor choices, expressed empathy for his loss, and given him a glimpse into what his life would have been like had he ended up in the hands of the man calling himself Sinister. Then he'd been told he would be given a chance at a fresh start, slate wiped clean. And challenged to make the most of it.

Helen laughed a little. "I don't think he looks so much like a Grant to me," she said.

"Well, you can work it out," The Witness said. "Two things though. First thing. Stay out of New York City. Second thing. Do not, under any circumstances, go to the year 1963. Never. I forbid it!"

"But why would I want to -," Remy started.

"I said don't do it!" The Witness barked. "I swear to God if I have to deal with timetravelers messing around the Kennedy assassination one - more - time - I will lose my pea-pickin' mind. Anyway, best be off then. Gentlemen, shall we leave these two to reconnect?"

"You're going to leave me?" Remy asked. He was perched on the edge of the chair. The little dog was looking at him and waving its tail in a hopeful way. Remy reached out a hand and let the dog sniff his fingers.

"We'll see each other again," The Witness said. "Ms. Moreux, maybe a change of scenery for yourself and Paradox Boy here? Like the West Coast? Far, far away from here? San Diego is nice. I have a shop there, just outside of the Gaslight District."

Helen nodded her understanding. "Thank you, Jack," she said quietly.

"You've franchised your crummy newsstand?" Murdock asked as The Witness took the two men by the arm and led them away from Helen's bedside.

"Crummy?!" The Witness objected.

"Agent Denti," Murdock began as the trio walked down the hospital corridor, "you needed to talk to Helen about something personal? It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with someone who goes by the codename 'Gambit,' would it?"

Denti held out his arms in a futile gesture. "It's just Mister Denti, not 'agent.' Or, call me Carl. But...I suppose in light of recent, er, revelations, that the information I have may be _irrelevant_. Or at the very least, extremely complicated."

"You suppose correct," The Witness said. "And Mr. Denti, you might also be in possession of some knowledge regarding Ms. Moreux and her occupational pursuits. It just so happens I am in possession of knowledge regarding _your_ extracurricular activities. Now I do hope you and Ms. Moreux can both leave your pasts in the past and I can trust you not to pursue any further inquiries?"

"Uhm," Denti said.

"Unless of course, you would like to call this phone number at a future date and inquire about her health and how she may be getting on. I assure you that she would be...receptive...to your concern."

Denti took the scrap of paper The Witness offered him, looked at it, and placed it carefully into his coat pocket.

"I also trust the pair of you to refrain from mentioning to the grown-up Gambit that a pint-sized version is still running loose in this present time? In the hopes that Ms. Moreux and her newfound son might have some semblance of a normal life?"

"What pint-sized version?" Murdock asked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The Witness nodded. "Very good. And then there's the contents of your briefcase."

Murdock transferred the grip on the briefcase to his opposite hand, the one furthest from The Witness. "These materials belong to Ms. Moreux and I will follow her instructions accordingly."

"Fine, fine," The Witness said airily. "And when Remy tells you he wants nothing to do with the contents, you can bring them to Ms. Moreux's grandson. He'll be at Stark Tower."

"Her...grandson?" Murdock murmured. "But that's not…"

"Could really save yourself de run around and give them to me _now_. But anyway," The Witness said brightly. "Who wants lunch? I know a place. Just hold on to your wallets, it's managed by Guild Thieves. Tip generously."

~ oOo ~

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Eleven Years Ago

Remy woke to a warm, soft weight pressed against the left side of his face. His head slowly turned to the right. When he opened his eyes, it was to the sight of Tante Mattie smiling at him, her dark eyes shining in her dark face. Her hand was held against his cheek, her eyes were full of concern.

"Welcome back, baby," she told him.

Remy blinked, took in his surroundings. He was in a hospital room, in a hospital whose decor he recognized easily. Tante Mattie sat beside him, wearing a bright cotton dress and handkerchief over her braided hair. She had some knitting in her lap, a scarf it seemed. Though who would need a scarf in New Orleans was anyone's guess.

"What?" he breathed. "What happen?"

"Y'don't remember?" Tante Mattie said as she sat back in a chair, her gentle touch moving to rest against his chest over his heart.

Remy shook his head against the pillow. He was propped upright on a hospital bed.

"Y'don't know how you got here?" Tante Mattie asked. When his eyebrows came together as he tried to think, she asked: "What's de last thing you remember?"

Remy scanned his memory. For the most part, it seemed like one big blank space. Some things, however, seemed foggy and indistinct. Glowing red eyes, not his own. Firelight shining on three metal knives, like claws. Miles and miles of dark tunnels. A woman with platinum white hair, flying in the sky.

"I think I saw an angel," Remy told her, confused.

"Mebbe your guardian angel was watchin' over you, Remy," Tante Mattie said and kissed his forehead. "But you don't remember fallin' sick or gettin' to the hospital?"

Again, he shook his head no.

"That's all right," she said kindly and patted his arm. This was a new experience for Remy. Usually, Tante Mattie and Jean-Luc didn't believe him when he said he couldn't recall something.

"You been here awhile," Tante Mattie told him. "Probably be here a few more days."

Remy made a sound of protest.

"It'd be longer if I hadn't healed you up some," she informed him pointedly. "But don't worry. Your daddy will make sure you're outta here before they stick you with any more holes. I brought you a few things from home." Tante Mattie gestured to the small rolling table at his bedside. There was a pack of playing cards and a few books. "And I can always read to you when you're feeling up to it. Hope these books ain't too young for you."

Mattie showed him the two books she'd brought. _Alice in Wonderland_ and _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. Remy shook his head. "I think I'll just stay in Kansas for a bit," he told her. "Oz is overrated."

"How about this one?" she offered a paperback with a picture of overlapping sand dunes on the cover.

"Ha, yeah," Remy agreed. "That's a good one."

"I was afraid you'd say that. I am not about to be able to pronounce all these crazy names," Mattie flipped to the first page. "Mwah-dib?"

Remy said: "Mu-ah-deeb. Muad'Dib."

"Ain't any wonder you can't spell, readin' this nonsense."

There was a small commotion outside the hospital room door.

"Get out de way!" announced a commanding voice. Remy recognized it immediately, and braced for impact.

BellaDonna strode into the room, arm held aloft like some kind of queen commanding heads to be removed. She was brushing past Jean-Luc LeBeau, forcing herself into the room.

"Belle," Jean-Luc was saying, trying to waylay her. "You best be getting-."

"You don't get t'tell me what to do!" she informed him, marching over to Remy's bedside. Her violet eyes, when they came to rest upon Remy's face, showed a moment of worry and alarm. "Remy, _bon Dieu_ , you look like you're half out de grave."

Remy shrank back a bit into the bedclothes. "Hey, Belle," he couldn't remember the last time they'd spoken, or if she was mad at him or not. Her wild blond hair had been tamed into a pair of braids that ran over the top of her head like a crown. She carried a small bag over her arm. She surveilled him critically.

"I heard you was sick," she said, more quietly now. "I always imagined if you were gonna end up in the ER, it woulda been because _I_ sent ya there."

"You still got de chance to put me in de morgue," he said, holding his hands out helplessly.

"Remy!" Tante Mattie scolded.

Belle smiled at him, her expression relieved. She perched herself on the side of the hospital bed beside him. "I wanted to see how you were doin'," she said. "Thought you could use some cheering up." She grabbed the bag she carried and upended it over Remy's lap. He sat up hurriedly, half thinking he would have to protect himself. Instead, packaged candy rained down from the canvas bag to spill over the bed. "Don't say I never gave ya nothin'," she told him.

"Enh, Belle," he said grinning, his hands weighing the candy as a pirate would buried treasure. "You are a woman after my own heart."

"I'll have it on a platter," she said, and kissed the side of his face. "Ya dummy. You'd better get well b'fore the next party because I'm _not_ going by myself, and everyone else is _so boring_."

"As you wish," he bowed his head slightly. She hit him with a wrapped Twizzler.

"Belle," Jean-Luc said tiredly. "You need to go. Remy needs to rest."

BellaDonna sniffed at him. "I'll go when I'm good an' ready. And it just so happens I'm ready now!" she announced. She stood from the bed and marched towards the door, momentarily held up when Jean-Luc failed to get out of her path. "Move!" she yelled at him, as he stepped aside and she sailed through the door.

"That girl is crazy," Jean-Luc remarked.

"Jean-Luc!" Tante Mattie admonished.

He waved her protest away, turned and closed the hospital room door. He too was carrying a small satchel, almost like a doctor's bag. Jean-Luc approached and pulled up a second chair from beneath the hospital room window. Placing it opposite Tante Mattie's place at Remy's right hand side, he sat on Remy's left. He set the little bag onto the floor. "Glad t'see you awake, son," he told Remy. "You had us pretty worried."

"I'm okay," Remy told him. "You don't got to worry 'bout me."

"Remy, I haven't worried more in my century-long life than I have these last few years," Jean-Luc said. "D'you remember how you got here?"

Tante Mattie said: "He doesn't. I asked him. The doctors said that might happen. Mem'ry loss."

Jean-Luc's expression conveyed what he thought about the opinions of doctors. "When you didn't come home, we went out lookin'. Realized you were found your bicycle outside de hospital, chained to de bike rack. Though why you bother t'chain that rusting pile of junk, I don't know. No one's ever gonna steal it."

"You didn't trash it did you?" Remy asked, annoyed.

Jean-Luc shook his head. "No, Remy. But I do think it's probably time we looked into getting you somethin' else to ride around on. You're not a little kid anymore."

Remy made a show of pinching himself. "Is this for real?" he asked himself aloud. "Is this a dream?"

Jean-Luc gave a half-exasperated half-laugh, took Remy by the back of the neck, and kissed his son on the forehead.

"Enh, poppa, get off," Remy said, pulling away, but not pulling too hard. He rubbed a hand against this forehead. "What's a-matter with you?"

"De nurses said a woman carried you into the ER," Tante Mattie told him. "You were unconscious. D'you think you fell?"

Remy was getting a little frustrated with this line of questioning, but not the questioners. _Why couldn't he remember anything?_ "Tattie," he said. "De last thing I have a clear picture of is you yellin' at me to feed the chickens." He blinked. "And...as I remember _that_ , I _was_ feelin' pretty sick that day anyway. And you said I was hung over!" He looked at her with an expression of hurt reproach, but when he saw how stricken Tante Mattie looked, he quickly smiled. "I mean, I did have more'n a few beers."

Mattie let out a frustrated sigh. "Jean-Luc," she said. "You have got t'do somethin' about this boy!"

"Enh, boys will be boys," Jean-Luc said, seemingly not bothered in the least. Jean-Luc told Remy: "I got somethin' for you."

"Y'did?" Remy asked. "Is it more candy?"

"Remy, do you have any idea how much orthodontics cost?" Jean-Luc frowned. "No, it's not candy. I got you some ownership, responsibility."

Remy's smile turned upside down. "No, thanks!"

Jean-Luc smiled. "I think you'll like it," he said, and picked up the small case he'd brought into the room. He placed the case, which had been left open a crack, onto Remy's bed. Jean-Luc loosed a bit of twine that had been holding the satchel closed. Remy was surprised when the face of a black and white kitten appeared.

"Ah!" Remy said, grinning. He picked up the kitten. It was all black with gold eyes, a neat white mask over its mouth, an almost perfectly circular bib of white on its chest, and white feet. "Y'got me a kitty!"

"Jean-Luc, you did not just bring that cat in here," Mattie scolded.

"I'll take him home when I go," Jean-Luc calmed his friend. To Remy he said: "You got to take care of him now, y'hear?"

"Okay! I will!" Remy said, delighted. He lay the kitten onto the bed amidst the pile of candy. The kitten rolled around in the crinkling wrappers, playful. Remy teased him with the Twizzler. "Thank you!"

"Well dis one is significantly less odorous than the last kittens you tried to adopt," Jean-Luc said.

Remy looked at his father blankly, a smile still playing on his mouth. "What kittens?" he asked.

"You remember," Jean-Luc urged. "The kittens you found in Tante Mattie's shed. The ones that turned out t'be baby skunks?"

Remy shook his head, confused. "I don't remember that," he said.

Jean-Luc and Tante Mattie exchanged a worried look. "Mebbe it'll come back t'you," Jean-Luc said slowly. "I, for one, won't ever forget _that_ smell."

Remy was distractedly playing with his new pet. The kitten had claimed his forearm with its forelegs, was kicking with its hindlegs, and was trying to gnaw on Remy's fingers. "Rraah, you're a little tough guy," he told the kitten. "I'm gonna rile you up good!"

"What'll you call him?" Jean-Luc asked.

Remy picked up the kitten under its forelegs and its back legs hung limply. He looked at the kitten in the face, with it's neat little markings, it's expression of superiority. "Tony," he said.

"What kind of name is 'Tony' for a cat?" Tante Mattie remarked, her face still conveying disapproval as far as the cat was concerned.

"Dunno," Remy said and lay back with the kitten on his chest. "Looks like a Tony t'me for some reason."

Tony looked at Remy imperiously, ears out to either side, licked a pink tongue over his nose, then leapt at Remy's neck hoping to resume their wrestling match. Remy let out a laugh. Tante Mattie's frown melted away.

Jean-Luc riffled through the candy strewn across the bedcovers. He picked up a small chocolate bar. "Fun-size," he remarked. "What's so 'fun' about getting only a third of de chocolate in a regular size?"

Remy gathered two more bars of chocolate and handed them to his father. He selected a peanut-butter cup to give to Tante Mattie. With one hand occupied by the kitten, he ripped the wrapper of the Twizzler off with his teeth.

"Y'give'n away your candy?" Jean-Luc asked, he sighed and leaned back into the chair. He opened the chocolate bar, took a bite.

"S'mine t'give, isn't it?" Remy said, trying to pick the piece of cellophane off his chin. "And b'sides, I needed to check and see if Belle poisoned it or not first... You feelin' okay there, poppa?"

Jean-Luc slowed his chewing and stared at Remy.

"Well, at least his sense of humor is intact," Tante Mattie remarked.

Jean-Luc shifted in his chair and produced a small pouch from his jacket pocket. "Given you don't seem to remember a whole lot, I wonder if you remember where this came from?" Jean-Luc asked. He extracted a three-diamond ring from inside the pouch.

Remy stared at it blankly. "I must've stole it," he murmured. He shook his head, trying to clear cobwebs from his mind. "You gonna tithe it?" he asked.

Jean-Luc returned the ring to its pouch. "No, _chèr_. You keep it. Give it to a nice girl, someday."

Tante Mattie's expression grew cautious and she shook her head slightly, as if to warn Jean-Luc of something. Remy, oblivious, chewed on his candy as the kitten curled up under his chin, purring loudly. "I don't think Belle'd appreciate you callin' her _nice_ , poppa," he said offhandedly.

Jean-Luc said nothing, but stood and took the kitten, placing it back into his bag.

"Y'goin'?" Remy asked.

"I'm meeting someone for dinner," Jean-Luc told him. "But I'll be back t'bust you outta dis place soon enough. Mattie, you coming?"

"I'll keep an eye on Remy," Tante Mattie told him.

Jean-Luc nodded. "You-stay put," he ordered, pointing a stern finger in Remy's direction.

"Yessir," Remy said diligently with false obedience.

"Tie him down, if you have to," he told Tante Mattie as he departed.

Tante Mattie made a scoffing sound. "You gonna stay right by my side, ain't ya, baby?" she asked Remy.

"Yes'm," Remy said smiling, basking in the glow of Tante Mattie's concern. "Love you, momma."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi friends. Thank you for reading. I hope my story is making sense, because I feel like I might be speaking into the void. I have good news for my faithful few, I have finished this story! There are seven chapters remaining and I will post a new one each week. I hope it is coherent, because there's still A LOT of stuff to tie back together. It was hard to keep straight who all knew what and when, but we all know The Witness knows all, and he'll set everyone straight. Or at least a little less crooked. We will return to our heroes, Jean and Remy, in the remaining chapters for some good times, some sad times, some steamy times, and some glad times.
> 
> Cross-posting on Fanfiction.net. New chapters every Wednesday.


	45. Witness Testimony

**The Witness' Stand, Somewhere**

**Somewhen**

Jean opened her eyes to stare upwards at a white ceiling. It was dimpled with age. A small antique brass chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling. Once it was fueled by gas; it was now fitted with electric bulbs. It was unlit, but some light filtered through the draperies on the nearby bay window. The furnishings in the room were draped with white dust cloths. The wood floor beneath her was bare of any carpeting. It appeared as if the apartment was uninhabited. She inhaled and slowly released her breath before sitting up. Remy was laying on the floor beside her. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be asleep. She leaned close to him to make sure he was still breathing. He smelled positively awful and was entirely filthy. His hair stook out from his head and face like a lion's mane, crusted with dust and grit. Jean shook her head, staring down at him. The shirt she had bought for him was shredded and a color somewhere between brown, orange and gray.

"Remy," she whispered.

His eyelids fluttered.

"Remy," she said again, putting her hand on his shoulder to give him a gentle shake.

"Mnh," Remy said, his eyes still closed. His hand reached upward, searching the air until he found her hair. His hand touched the back of her head.

"Remy, get up," Jean told him.

"Mm, m'okay," he mumbled and leaned forward, his hand pulling her close. His mouth pressed into hers and his arms drew around her.

Jean inhaled sharply with surprise, breathing in the sharp stink of unwashed body and - camel?

"Mmph!" Jean said and roughly shoved Remy back to the floor while sitting up and climbing to her knees.

Remy was fully awake now, blinking with surprise. "What?" he said, looking around the room. "What's goin' - who? Jean?"

Jean rubbed her forearm over her mouth. "Ugh! Remy!" she exclaimed.

Remy propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. "Oh, sorry, Jeannie. I thought you were someone else."

"What?!" Jean squawked with outrage. "Who? Who did you think I was?"

"Erm," Remy stalled, eyes still casting about the room while scratching behind his ear. "Where are we?" he finally asked.

Jean exhaled and let her arms fall to her sides. Remy sat up fully. "Where'd you take us?"

"An apartment," she said. "It's a safehouse. Above The Witness' Stand."

Remy shook his head in incomprehension for a moment, then understanding dawned on him. "The Witness' Stand? The Witness' shop? In New Orleans?"

"No-," Jean began, then reconsidered. "I mean, yes? I think so."

Remy studied her carefully, questions written all over his face. "How'd you know about dis place? What made you think t'come here?"

Jean combed her fingers through her mussed hair. "I didn't know where to go, or when to go, so I just took us _nowhere_. Your father told me it was outside of time and space."

"My father?" Remy asked, he looked mildly mortified. "You met Jean-Luc?"

Jean nodded. "Feels like forever ago...it was more like hours. But yes. We didn't know where you went after the doughnut shop. Jean-Luc received a call from the school saying you were there. We were on our way."

"But how would anyone know I was at the school? I only just popped up there! I didn't see anyone except...little Jean, little Scott and my...self. Wait! My little self was there! I'd give my right arm t'see de expression on Jean-Luc's face when…they called my dad? So they weren't gonna kill me? Ugh, my head hurts," he said, putting his forehead down on his raised knees. After a moment, he asked: "How long have I been gone?"

"Maybe a day?" Jean said.

"A day only?" he moaned.

Jean put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Let's work it out later. Right now, you need to get cleaned up. You're a mess. And you absolutely reek."

Remy sighed and they both climbed to their feet. They were in the sitting room at the front of the apartment. Jean took Remy across the hall to a closed door. She opened it to find a small bathroom. The floor was made up of small black and white tiles; the walls in glossy subway tile. A pedestal sink with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it was to the right. Beside the sink was a toilet with an old fashioned tank and pull chain. To the left was a clawfoot tub surrounded by a clear plastic shower curtain. Above the tub was a small stained glass window with a pair of red birds in cut glass. Light shone through it, painting the white tub with dappled colors.

"Here, you get undressed," Jean walked to the tub and turned the taps. The pipes gave a cough and a clank, but then water began to flow and fill the tub. She turned to see Remy staring at her.

"I'll find towels," she said. "There's a shop next door. I'll go get some soap."

"Okay," Remy answered slowly. He let his arms drop and his coat slouched off his shoulders. It fell to the tiles with a puff of dust.

Jean nodded at him and left the bathroom. Remy continued to undress, looking at himself in the mirror over the sink. Jean was right, he was a mess. Under the dirt, he was sunburned, scratched, and bruised. His formerly pink shirt joined his coat. He pulled his black tee-shirt over his head. By the time he'd taken off his boots and jeans, the tub had mostly filled. He climbed in and immediately submerged himself. Nothing had ever felt better. Resurfacing, he took hold of the hand shower and sprayed himself in the face, then held the shower over his head, creating a waterfall out of his long hair. When he opened his eyes, he could see the water in the tub had already turned brown. He pulled the plug and let the water start to drain.

Remy was lounging back in the water, watching the tub refill when Jean returned. She had towels and a plastic shopping bag in her arms. Remy glanced up to look at her. She didn't meet his gaze. Jean hung a towel on a bar beside the bathtub and handed him a washcloth. She turned to the shopping bag she'd placed on the sink. Jean removed a boxed bar of soap from the bag, opened the box to remove the soap, and gave that to him as well. She put a bottle of shampoo on the floor beside the tub. Then she sat on the closed toilet lid cover behind him. Neither of them offered commentary on his nakedness.

The tub was filled. The faucets turned off. A droplet splashed into the water, interrupting the silence. Remy stared at the tiled wall in front of him. Jean sat quietly behind him, not speaking. He slowly picked up the bar of soap from the soap holder and applied it to the washcloth.

"Everything okay?" Remy asked, unable to withstand the oppressive quiet.

"I wonder," Jean said slowly.

"What?" Remy asked.

"Nothing, nevermind," Jean replied. "What happened to you? Why are you so dirty?"

"It's a long story," Remy said. He scrubbed his face with the washcloth. He held it away from his face and looked at it. It very much resembled the Shroud of Turin.

Jean sighed, frustrated, resigned and disappointed.

"But I guess we have de time," Remy continued. "All de time we could want, enh?"

Jean moved behind him. She picked up the shampoo bottle. He heard her open it, put shampoo into her hands. "Yes," she said. He felt her hands in his hair. Remy closed his eyes.

"All right," he began slowly, as her fingers combed through his hair, nails scratching his scalp in an extremely satisfactory way. "So you're not gonna believe dis…I went to d'doughnut shop...and guess who was there. Eating a cruller." And then he told her everything. He left out no detail. Jean listened, occasionally asking questions or exclaiming surprise. She had to have him pause right after the part where he'd been taken by the Marauders so she could rinse the soap from his hair. Remy kept talking, gesturing with his hands and spraying water droplets onto the tiled walls and floor.

"Achmed!" Jean exclaimed, while she pulled a black comb through Remy's tangled hair. "But that's too-! How? It can't be true!"

"That's what I thought too!" Remy replied and continued. He was really getting into this storytelling thing. He made his hands claws as he described Sinister injecting him with poison. His fist splashed the water at the part where the cave exploded. He even did a good Sinister impression, with the exaggerated pauses and declarations of doom. Jean laughed.

"Don't do that again, it gives me the creeps," she said, a smile in her voice.

"That's it then," Remy said finally when his story had concluded. "That's all she wrote."

Jean said softly, "That you went through all that...to protect me… I don't...I...Remy. That you survived is a miracle." She handed him the towel, turned away, and stood to approach the sink.

"Be a real miracle if I ever get all this sand out of every crack and crevice in my body," he said, rubbing the washcloth in his ear.

Remy unplugged the tub and stood. He toweled his chest and shoulders dry, rubbed his damp hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist. When he turned, Jean was still there, facing him this time. She had a pair of scissors in one hand, an electric razor in the other.

"You're scaring me, _chѐre_ ," he said, eyes widening.

She smiled grimly and clicked the shears. "Have a seat," she gestured to the toilet. Remy sat on the lid, eyeing the scissors warily.

"D'you even know what you're doin'?" he asked.

"It can't be any worse than it is," she told him. "And if I make a mistake, I suppose I can just shave the whole thing."

Remy made to stand hurriedly, but Jean told him: "Kidding, kidding!"

He sat again. She used the small black comb to smooth the beard on his face. Her face was very close to his.

"What about you?" Remy asked. "What did you get up to while I was gone? How did you run into Jean-Luc?"

"Shh," Jean said as she made a few experimental snips at the side of his face, trimming the hair shorter, while leaving it a more reasonable length and shape. "No talking."

"So you talk now," he said. "What's your story?"

Jean paused, her mouth a grim line. Her green eyes stared into his red ones. "I don't even know how to start," she said dully. She resumed her grooming of his beard, unable to meet his gaze. "I've been given another chance, a fresh start, and I ruined it. I really messed up, Remy."

"Jeannie -," he started.

"No, hush. I'll tell you," she neatly trimmed the hair on his upper lip. "Don't move unless you want a bloody lip."

He looked at her with trepidation.

"I woke up in an underground city, Sinister Prime's city. There were five of us, five of _me_. Only Number Four had died before I really...came back to myself." Jean shortened the wild hair on Remy's chin. "Sinister Prime was rebuilding his stock. He tried... to inseminate me on more than one occasion that I can recall."

Remy made a sound of protest, but she put her fingers over his lips. "There was another clone," she continued. "One of _you_. He was defective, supposedly. Because instead of exploding like all the other clones of you, he was unable to charge anything. He was very kind to me. He helped me escape. He took insane risks." Here Jean shook her head, remembering. "I was desperate. We...I had sex with him. Because I knew Sinister would try again and I was not, _not_ , not going to-have his child. No."

Remy was watching her face, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. She didn't want to see the expression on his face. She could feel his confusion and anxiety. Disgust, too. But for herself or for Sinister? She didn't press further. She continued grooming him.

"I had feelings for him, your clone. Maybe I was so, so hungry for companionship, I imagined I might love him. But he was not whole. He was sweet, and funny, and fearless. And almost...like a child." At the admission, Jean felt revulsion for herself. "I _used_ him, Remy. Poppet -that's what your clone was called- Poppet and I were together when there was an explosion. He and I escaped. The other three clones of me died. They were killed. By the other X-Men. Stabbed, burned. I felt them die, and it was like we were coming back together. So I have these-other me's-in my head. Controlling, cruel, hopeless, angry. Selfish. So _selfish_. All the worst parts. And the only good one, the brave one, the one who sacrificed herself to save us, she was already gone. I'm the leftovers."

Remy put his hands over her hand, the one that still held the scissors. "That's not even close to true," he told her. "I've been with you all dis time and you've not been any of those things." He paused, then tried to smile. "Okay, maybe a tad domineering," he admitted.

Jean sat back on her heels in front of him. "You haven't heard the worst," she said, brushing fallen hair clippings from his knee. She inhaled slowly. "Before I ran into your father, here, in this apartment, I-I followed a lead Matt Murdock called with, about your assassin. Poppet's murderer. I went on my own, when I should have waited. I broke into a woman's apartment. She caught me. There was a struggle. And then she was shot. I shot her."

Remy watched her and this time she looked into his eyes. "I think she's dead. Only I don't know, because I ran away. An assassin did come then, a real one. And threw a knife at me."

Remy lowered his head, his long hair falling like a sheet over his face. "Jean," he sounded tired. "I don't know what t'say."

"You don't have to say anything," she told him. "I don't want to hear it anyway. There's nothing you could say to make it better."

Jean swallowed, her throat dry. She whispered her secret: "I hate myself."

He looked up at her then, and for once his expression was one full of emotion, not a mask. "Jean, listen t'me," he told her and she began to protest, not wanting to see the empathy in his eyes. She put up her arms to ward him off. "No, just listen. I know how you feel. I know _exactly_ how you feel. Do you know what deserves your hate? Hate what Sinister did to you. Hate that your friend was murdered before your eyes. Hate the circumstances. This person you are doesn't deserve your hate. This person you are deserves love."

"Do you know how disgusting it feels?" she asked. "Knowing that _he_ made me? That he _owned_ me? That he felt like he could do whatever he wanted to me, to my body?"

"I have an inkling," Remy whispered. "Maybe he made your body, Jean. But he didn't make your beautiful mind, your soul. Only one being has the power t'do that, and Sinister ain't Him."

Jean was crying. "I wish I had your faith. Everything is a mess. Why did I have to come back? Why was I called? Why? Haven't I been through enough?"

He put his hands on her upper arms and squeezed. "We'll try to make it right, _chѐre_. We'll figure it out. You and me. I want to help you. And I need you," he said. "And I mean that literally, because without your help, I don't know how in de hell we're supposed to get out of dis here missing time place."

"You can just use the door," she said miserably. Jean looked at him through her tears, her face blotchy and swollen, her darkened hair in disarray. He smiled at her, thinking she looked more beautiful, more real, than she'd ever had.

"Remy," she croaked, and then turned aside to seize a handful of toilet paper to wipe her face. "I don't need you to help me try to fix it. I don't need you to do anything more for me than you already have." Her breathing was hard and shaky. She tried to marshal her emotions, but her throat felt tight, and the more she struggled to stop the tears, the harder they fell. "I'm glad you're here. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for just being here with me. That's all I want."

"All right," Remy said, and put his arms around her. "All right, I can do that." He felt her press her face into the space where his neck and shoulder met. He moved to sit beside her on the floor. She returned his embrace. His lips moved to her hair and he pressed a kiss there. Remy didn't know how much time passed that he spent holding her, that she held him. Only her tears subsided and breathing slowed. Jean's hand absently stroked the back of his arm, her lips still pressed against his shoulder, breath warm on his neck. He became more and more aware he was wearing nothing but a towel. "I mean, there must be _other_ things you would want me for…?"

Jean drew back slowly and looked at Remy. Her expression was not one of approval. "You. Are. Incorrigible."

"That's Stormy's line," Remy told her, giving her a watery smile.

"I can tell, that even _you_ know, that your usual attempt at sexual innuendo is wildly inappropriate. And I would normally tolerate your use of levity to break the tension. But. I have something else to tell you, Remy," Jean said and reached for the plastic shopping bag.

Remy's smile faded. "You're not going to put mousse in my hair, are you?"

"Oh, Remy," she whispered. "What am I going to do with you?" Jean was holding a rectangular box in her hands. It was pink. Jean stared at it. She showed him the box. It was a pregnancy test.

"Not again," Remy murmured.

Jean inhaled: "Remy. I think I'm pregnant."

They regarded one another for a long moment. For perhaps the first time ever, Remy seemed to be at a complete loss for words. His brow wrinkled. Jean's heart thundered. The moment of silence was interrupted by the sounds of muffled footsteps in the hallway. They both turned toward the sound.

"Who is that?" Remy asked her. "Jean-Luc?"

Jean reached out with her telepathy. Her expression became confused. She stood slowly and Remy climbed to his feet, holding the towel around his waist.

"No," Jean replied. Together, they left the bathroom and returned to the living room. There was a man there, pulling the dust covers from the furnishings. A coffee table now sat in the center of the room. A briefcase sat atop it. The man turned, folding one of the white sheets over his arm. He regarded the pair for a moment, his expression was uncharacteristically grim.

"Oh," Remy started. "It's Th'Witness. Jean, dis is..."

The Witness raised a pale eyebrow, waiting. He was not wearing his glasses, and his eyes flashed in the dim light.

"...Someone I know," Remy finally finished. "He runs de shop downstairs."

Jean recognized the name, as Jean-Luc had asked after his whereabouts. _He's a grumpy grouch,_ the boy had told his grandfather. The Witness turned his attention to Jean. "Thought I'd get de place ready for visitors," he told her. "I'm a bit late. Got inta a philosophical debate with the Devil during lunch."

Jean stared, dumbstruck; her arms hung limply at her sides.

"Remy," The Witness said. "You'll find some clothes in the closet at the end of the hall. You and I share a similar fashion-sense. Sure there'll be somethin' you like."

"Awright," Remy said, mildly perplexed. He returned to the hallway and disappeared from view.

Jean and The Witness regarded one another. "D'you know me?" he asked her.

She recognized the little boy inside the man. "Jackie?" she asked softly.

He nodded once. His expression was sincere, open.

"But you're…" Jean began. How was it possible for him to be grown when only yesterday he was a child?

"You wondered why you came back. Back to de here and now, I mean. Back from de white room," The Witness began, using Jean's own words to describe where she'd been in between lives. "You felt like someone...called for you."

"Yes," Jean answered with a jolt of surprise, wondering how he could have known.

"It was me," The Witness said. "I called."

"How?" Jean asked. All at once she began to shake.

He shook his head from side to side. "I saw... _witnessed_...an opportunity. For you t'come home. I put my heart an' soul into calling your name."

"Why?" Jean whispered, her face flushing red.

"B'cause I needed you," The Witness said.

"Did you," Jean said through her numb lips, her jaw clenched hard. "Did you... _arrange_ for this to happen? Somehow?"

The Witness sighed. "You're angry. Y'have a right t'be. You think your life is not your own t'live. You think you got other people pullin' the strings."

Jean closed her eyes, her anger was clouding her vision. She could taste the metallic tang of fear and fury on her tongue.

"I never care if other folks believe me or not. I only care that _you_ do. And you trust me when I say...the strings were already there, and I don't pull 'em. I just cross 'em. Bring 'em together. But I never, never make the decisions. That's not my place. You do that, you decide at the crossroads...on your own."

Jean reopened her eyes to look at this strange...person. Whoever he was. Who she feared him to be.

"It's always been your choice," The Witness said quietly. Then he broke his gaze and looked away. "T'have me. To not."

Jean looked down at the box she still held in her hands, her vision blurred with tears. "I can't do this," she whispered.

The Witness nodded sadly. "You are...de strongest person I've ever met, in all my years. Not rigid, not hard. Strong. You bend, but you don't break. You can do whatever you put your mind to. You can do anything."

Jean steeled herself, not wanting to talk anymore, not wanting to listen. Just wanting to put her hands over her ears and scream. Instead, she drew a breath. "I've given _everything_ ," she said, her voice shaking with barely controlled emotion. "My love. My mind. My body. My life. I have nothing more to give."

"Not even game for another round of 'The Floor is Lava'?" he asked sadly, without joy or hope.

Jean felt as if her heart would shatter. She clutched a fist to her shirt, as if she could hold that beating organ. Make it still. Will it not to hurt so badly.

"You don't have t'do anything, not for me. Y'don't even know me. I'm a stranger. I ask for help for someone else, since he rarely asks for himself," The Witness nodded towards the doorway.

"I need you t'help him," The Witness said. "Will you?"

Remy reappeared from the hall, looking down at the shirt he was wearing as he entered the room. "Hey, I had a shirt like dis when I was a kid! Tante Mattie threw it out," he was saying. He looked up at The Witness. "D'you think I can keep this?" The smile dropped from his face as he looked from The Witness to Jean. "What happened?"

Jean looked up at Remy, felt his concern wash over her like a soothing balm. "Of course I'll help him," she said. "I'd do anything."

"Wait, what?" Remy said, now alarmed. "Help me wit' what?"

"Help you face some hard truths, Remy," The Witness moved to the coffee table and opened the briefcase there. The small gold metal plate on the briefcase read: DENTI. He began removing files from the case, a laptop. "Because without de truth, you'd wish you'll never be born."

* * *

Not pulling any punches in the next chapter. Regardless on where you stand on certain issues re: reproductive rights, I hope you consider the following chapter with an open mind. It is a consideration of both sides, which I hope I treated fairly.


	46. Multiple Choice

**The Witness' Stand**

**Somewhere, Somewhen**

Jean had to admit there was something appealing about Remy's tactic of ignoring, suppressing, and avoiding problems and upsetting thoughts. But the longer she delayed, the larger her problem grew. Quite literally. She felt that she had three choices. No, four choices. Not choosing was also a choice. Which was her current tactic, the not choosing. Instead, there were any number of things she could do to distract herself.

For the past few weeks (or however long it had been since time seemed to have no meaning here) she had been employing Choice Four. She and Remy remained in the confines of the small apartment over The Witness' Stand. When it seemed that they'd been closed off long enough, they ventured out. It was always a surprise to discover what was going on in the world outside of the apartment. Sometimes they found themselves in New York or Boston, Savannah or New Orleans, San Diego or Vancouver. There were times they emerged in Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town, New Delhi, or Rome.

"Beats de red eye," Remy observed when they found themselves one day in Paris.

Disorienting still was not knowing _when_ they would appear. London in the late 1920s was a pleasant diversion spent exploring Hyde Park. Segregated Charleston in the 1950s was a less enjoyable experience. They discovered they could tell where and when they might be by consulting the newspapers in the newsstand before stepping out of the shop. So in addition to inclement weather, they might also choose to stay inside because there was a "high chance of riots," or it was "partly pandemic."

On those days, Jean would read the newspaper in the kitchen. Though the news was irrelevant to her personally, it was still interesting. Remy knew the answers to _The New York Times_ crosswords. Unfortunately, he couldn't spell them. So Jean would read the clues to him, he would provide the answer, and she would fill in the letters.

There were any number of books and board games inside the hall closet, which seemed to extend into infinity. Their magic hall closet also provided them with a safe full of various currency to spend. Remy called it the 'Room of Requirement,' a reference Jean was only vaguely familiar with. Jean failed to interest Remy in any of the games, especially when a game of _Monopoly_ ended before it could begin when they got into an argument over who got what playing piece. He attempted to teach her a few card games which Jean found boring, but played anyway. Jean had made it a mission to find things to keep Remy occupied, because otherwise he'd descend into spiraling introspection, nervous twitching, and otherwise make himself incredibly annoying. Finding things to do also served to distract her from her own thoughts.

Unfortunately, today it seemed they were snowed in by a freakish blizzard in the late 1970s. Jean was laying on the bed in one of the only two apartment bedrooms. She left Remy in the sitting room where he was lounging on the couch, reading some fantasy novel for the second or third time. Her hands rested on her stomach. She thought she should probably see a doctor, but the thought of seeing an obstetrician filled her with waves of sick horror.

Choice one, she thought. End the pregnancy. She could find a clinic, she thought. Or, could she use her own telekinetic powers? Cause herself to miscarry? Jean closed her eyes.

Choice two, find a family for the baby. Maybe a nice mutant couple who could handle the charge of a dangerously powerful mutant child. That seemed like a tall order.

Choice three, keep the baby. Certainly the most complicated choice. When she was only just now recognizing her own personhood, she would lose it again, take on a new identity: mother. She began to tremble.

She wasn't so far along that she couldn't ignore what was happening to her own body. Most days she could pretend nothing was wrong. She did not get sick, just mild nausea that could be controlled with lots of Saltine crackers. She did feel tired most of the time, but also filled with a nervous energy that sustained her days and sleepless nights. Other symptoms weren't so annoying that they couldn't be pushed out of her thoughts. She craved and drank gallons of lemonade. Weirdly, she found she had somehow acquired Wolverine's amazing sense of smell. The scent of brewing coffee could make her dry heave. Remy's scent, which was all over the apartment, on the towels, on the sheets, had a decidedly different effect on her than the coffee. She chalked her reactions up to hormones.

They were sharing the bed most nights. The other room, with its child-sized bed, remained closed. Jean ignored that too. At night, Jean and Remy lay under the same blankets on the queen-sized mattress. The space between them seemed charged. Neither of them vocally acknowledged the tension. She didn't want to think about what a physical relationship between them would mean. To him, probably nothing. He was a master of compartmentalizing thoughts from actions. Who was to say he was even interested, given her condition? It was Jean's own feelings she was concerned with. Was it just his proximity and availability that made him enticing? Would she just be using him for her own comfort? There wasn't anything between them, right? Just circumstances beyond their control. She didn't like his closed-offedness, that his thoughts and emotions had to be dragged out of him by force. She disliked his backward treatment and views of women. She did like his empathy, generosity, and non-judgemental compassion, however.

Jean sat up from the bed and returned to the sitting room. Remy was on the floor, bare-chested, doing crunches. His hair was pulled back from his face, twisted into a knot at the back of his head. Little sounds of effort emitted from his lips as he counted sets. He paused mid-crunch, looking at her, the muscles in his abdomen taught. Jean drew a deep breath. She could smell him in here too. Jean felt her face flame with heat. She immediately turned from the room to move to the bathroom.

"Y'okay, _chѐre_?" Remy called after her.

"I need to take a shower," she called back to him, and closed the door to fall back against it.

She was grateful to open the shop door the following day to find Austin, Texas. The weather was beautifully mild. Remy shot through the door as if fired from the barrel of a gun.

Jean paused on the step to close the newsstand door behind her while consulting the day's newspaper. "Seeing as it's the early 1990s, your regular wardrobe should blend naturally into the environment."

"Jean, have I told you how funny you are lately?" he asked. He was wearing faded jeans and an obnoxiously loud tee shirt under his customary coat.

Jean, wearing an oversized shirt over a pair of leggings, felt she'd made something of an effort to fit the times. Remy just looked as he normally did. She told him: "Just add a boombox and some Peter Gabriel, and you've got a whole John Cusack thing going."

"The laughs just keep on comin'!"

"What are we going to do today?" Jean asked.

"Please, let it be college 'ball season!" Remy clapped his hands together in prayer and looked to the sky in supplication.

Several people passing by on the street saluted him with extended forefinger and pinky fingers. "Hook 'em horns!" came a few cheers.

Remy let out a joyful whoop and Jean joined him on the sidewalk. "Jean, will you make me de happiest man alive and tell me it's Saturday?"

She laughed and handed him the newspaper. "Looks like we're incredibly fortunate. Does that mean you want to catch a game?"

"Ain't nothin' like Texas football," Remy said, consulting the sports pages. "Don't tell anyone I'm a Tigers fan 'round here though, I'll be murdered in de street."

"Well, what does it matter who wins?" Jean asked. "I will never understand why anyone cares for a team whose school they never attended."

"I might've sat in on a few classes at LSU," Remy told her, shrugging. "When I was a teen."

Jean was surprised. "Did you? Classes in what?"

"Oh, physical sciences or some such nonsense," Remy informed her glibly. "Theory of relativity, atoms and what have you. Never came in handy. I hardly ever use it. What about you?"

She laughed. "I went to Metro, in New York. Psychology," Jean replied. "Is that too obvious?"

Remy grinned at her. "What a waste of time! Someone like you should do somethin' like modeling. Use your natural talents."

"I will smother you in your sleep," she told him in a deadpan tone. He laughed and took her arm as they walked down the street. She allowed herself to be led; he always seemed to know where he was going.

"Okay," Jean said, unable to resist his enthusiasm. "I guess that's our afternoon planned."

The football game was incredibly loud and incredibly orange. The energized crowd was overwhelming. It served to help Jean drown out her own thoughts and fears. She and Remy cheered and chanted for the home team with the rest of the sports fans. They ate concession food and drank lemonade. When the game ended, they joined the flow of bodies to the exit. By now it was late afternoon. They slowly walked toward Downtown Austin. As they neared Sixth Street, the sound of live music grew louder. They began passing various clubs, music pouring out of open doors. Remy lingered at a doorway, hearing something he liked. Jean pulled him inside. They spent the rest of the evening moving in and out of clubs, dancing to a variety of different music genres. Night had fallen and the crowds in the street grew larger and rowdier. With their ears ringing from the loud music, they found their way to a barbeque restaurant.

"Does this mean Lent is over?" Jean asked, only vaguely aware of the dietary restrictions Remy had self-imposed.

"Ah, it's nearly Sunday anyway," he said, sliding a tray of brisket in front of Jean. "And I've completely lost track of time." He sat across from her at the communal table, which was crowded with other people enjoying barbeque.

Jean was famished, as usual. She was bone-tired, but the food helped revive her. Since it was loud and crowded, and her ears were buzzing from the clubs, they ate for the most part without speaking. Jean finally had to admit she'd reached her limit of smoked meat, potato salad, beans and coleslaw. Then Remy magicked a portion of blackberry cobbler before her, and she found she had a second wind.

"I think you got your wish," Jean told him, dropping her plastic spoon into the empty styrofoam bowl.

" _Ain_?" Remy asked.

"Your wishful thinking," Jean said. "That number you put on my fake ID, for weight? Well, I think I may have met and surpassed it."

Remy smiled into her eyes, his gaze steady and bright in the dim of the restaurant. "It suits you," he said, making his approval known.

Jean felt heat creep up her neck. She broke his gaze and drained her cup of lemonade.

"Feelin' flushed, _chѐre_?" he suggested.

"It's warm in here," she responded.

"We can head out then," he said. "Unless you want to lick your plate?"

She sent a balled up napkin in his direction as he left to bus their trays, his warm laugh following after him.

Back on the sidewalk, they continued their ambling path down city streets. The city was alive with music, light and people. The raucousness of the crowd grew as the night went on. Remy put a hand on Jean's hip and deftly steered her from the path of a stumbling drunk at the last moment. The heat of his grip on her felt like a brand, and she found herself pressed close to his side.

"Y'tired, Jeannie?" he asked.

"I think I've seen enough vomiting and public urination for the evening," Jean said, looking up at him.

"Here I was about t'say this scene is makin' me homesick for N'Awlins," he said, his face angled toward hers, his voice low. "But I won't keep a lovely lady on her feet all night. Let's get you t'bed."

It was a curse of her fair skin; there was no hiding the blush that spread across her cheeks, that made her ears burn. _Enough_ , she thought. _I have to end this._

She took one of his lapels in her hand and pulled him closer, kissing his mouth. He responded, his hand coming to rest on the side of her neck, returning her kiss. Slowly, reluctantly, they parted, standing on the street corner under a streetlamp. She took his hand and together they walked back to the newsstand, up the steps to the apartment.

In the bedroom, their bedroom, they kissed again. First in the doorway, then with her pressed against the dresser. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror. Jean put a hand on Remy's shoulder, stopping him for a moment.

"Why didn't you tell me I had barbeque sauce on my face?" she asked with annoyance, wiping at the offending spot.

He laughed. "I thought it was a freckle," he told her, kissing the corner of her mouth.

"A red, mesquite-flavored freckle," she said, disbelievingly.

He took her face in his hands. "I thought I'd leave it," he told her. "Because sometimes I think you're just too perfect."

"That's some line," she whispered, turning her mouth into his palm.

"It wasn't a line," he said into her hair. She felt the truth in his words.

When he lifted her onto the dresser top, pressing tightly against her, she felt relief. To give up control, to let herself relax into his touch. He pulled his shirt over his head. Then raised the hem of her top. Her hair fell around her face when he pulled her shirt over her head. He pulled her against him again, kissing her just beneath her ear. Holding her tightly against himself, he carried her to the edge of the bed, depositing her there, his body weight against her for a moment. Remy pulled away, taking her leggings down her legs, her shoes from her feet. He looked up at her from where he knelt before her on the floor. He placed a kiss on the inside of her knee. His eyes stared into her own as he slowly made his way up the inside of her thigh. He paused, as if waiting for something. Jean realized he was asking her a question, wondering it in his own mind.

_Do you want me?_

"Yes," Jean said out loud. "Oh, yes."

He continued upwards. She gasped. She gripped the bedclothes. She called out, then sank her fingers into his hair. She drew him upwards, feeling his weight on her again. They joined together and she moaned against his mouth.

"Is this okay?" he asked, moving slowly.

_It's better than okay,_ she answered him, inviting him into her thoughts, to feel what she was feeling. She heard his breath catch in his throat, surprised. Jean encouraged him to continue, pressing her heels into the back of his thighs.

"Ah, _Dieu_ ," he said quietly. She felt him slowly lower his defenses, to reciprocate her invitation. Letting her experience his own enjoyment. Jean clutched at him, the sensations flowing in a constant feedback loop too intense to sustain for very long. They echoed each other's cries.

They came to a gasping, shuddering stop. His forehead pressed into the mattress beside her head, his breathing warm against her neck. She turned her face into his hair, breathing in his scent. After gathering himself for several moments, Remy lifted away. He stood, pulled Jean's legs onto the bed, then climbed over her to lay beside her on the mattress. Jean released a long sigh and closed her eyes. Remy's arm draped across her midsection.

"Here I thought being with a telepath would be creepy. But that was pretty great. Didn't know you could use it for sex stuff," he told her groggily. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him.

Jean's mouth curved into a smile. "Remy, haven't you heard that the mind is the largest sexual organ?"

She watched a slow grin spread over his face. He gestured downward. "You sure about that?"

Jean closed her eyes. Turning away, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Remy. You. Are….You know what? I'm not even going to say it. That was my own fault. I completely blame myself for that one."

"Can't help myself," he told her.

Jean released another sigh, this one a satisfied release of air. "I admit, I do have an appreciation for how unreservedly you went for that opening."

There was a pregnant pause, then Remy propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Jean's face.

"Did you just- _double entendre_ me?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"I've never found you more attractive than I do at dis moment," he told her.

She laughed softly. The fingers of his left hand traced a line from her jawline down her neck, then between her breasts, down her midriff. Jean shivered. His hand stopped, hovered over the slight protuberance of her belly. His warm palm rested there. Jean felt her smile fade.

"D'you feel anything?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head slightly. "Just a series of embarrassing body functions," she said, her tone flat.

"D'you know what you're gonna do?" he asked. _About the baby?_ he thought. She knew with his upbringing and beliefs, in his mind, it was already a baby. From the moment of conception. In this one, and only one instance, to him there were no shades of gray.

Jean frowned, not looking at him though she could feel his gaze against the side of her face. "Do _you_ know what _you're_ going to do...with the contents of that briefcase?" she responded, her voice cold.

Remy drew away, retreating to lay on his back to stare at the ceiling. Jean instantly regretted her words. _You ruined it_ , she thought to herself. _You ruined everything. Cruel. Selfish._ She felt her eyes sting with tears. Jean sat up, turned to look down at Remy. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry, that was mean. I felt defensive, so I attacked you."

His eyes glanced at her, then away. He didn't respond, his thoughts closed off to her.

"I am so caught up in my own...problems. That I forgot that you've got troubles of your own. I am sorry that I struck out at you when you were just trying to be kind to me."

She could tell he didn't know how to respond to an apology. He finally met her eyes again. " _D'accord_ ," he said quietly, gave a small close-mouthed smile.

"Does that translate to: 'I forgive you with all my heart'?" Jean asked, laying back down, her body curved towards his.

Remy moved to face her. He ran his knuckles over the curve of her cheek. "I will," he answered.

* * *

Next: A card game and decisions made.


	47. Knave of Hearts

**The Witness' Stand**

**Somewhere, Somewhen**

Jean knew she couldn't live in denial forever. It was time, past time. She had to make a decision. She didn't know where the man calling himself The Witness was. Could it be that he was making himself scarce? Or was he simply...gone? She felt her throat tighten at the thought.

Remy was in the kitchen, looking at a cup of tea. Jean still couldn't stand the smell of coffee, and Remy was still avoiding caffeine. He took a sip from the mug and grimaced. Jean pulled out a chair and sat across from him. She placed a deck of cards on the tabletop.

"Thought you hated card games?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"I do," she responded. "But I can play this one. Here's the deal. Loser is first to face their fears with the unquestioning compassion and support of the winner."

Remy's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't think I want t'play."

"We can't keep avoiding our problems," she said. "Lives are at stake."

Remy pushed his mug of tea aside. "Okay," he acquiesced. "Deal me in. What're we playin'?"

"This is war," Jean said, dealing cards.

"What now?" Remy asked, watching as his pile of cards grew before him. He caught them up and gathered them into a pile.

"The name of the game is 'War,'" she explained, dealing until there were no cards left. She tidied her pile of cards. "It's easy, the player with the highest card wins both."

"What kinda dumb game is dat?" Remy asked. "There's no skill involved. It's just random. Chance."

"That's right," Jean said. "That makes it fair. Since when it comes to card games, I have no skill."

Remy made a derisive sound.

"Are you ready?" Jean asked, looking for his confirmation.

"Alright, let's get dis over with," he said, and turned over the first card. Jean's card trumped his and she claimed them both. The same thing happened again twice when Remy said: "Who shuffled dis here deck?"

He claimed her next card, and from there it went back and forth. Remy ended up claiming several of her smaller valued cards and she could see the game was going in her favor. Remy was becoming irritable.

"When's dis game over?" he asked.

"When someone runs out of cards," she answered. They both drew a Seven.

"Okay, now what?" Remy said.

"Now it's War," Jean replied. She removed three cards from her pile and he imitated her. "W-A-R," she said as she placed each card face-down. Then she turned over the last and declared: "War!"

Remy revealed a Nine of Clubs. Jean turned over her card, the Jack of Spades. She smiled grimly at him and collected all six cards. "Sorry, Remy."

He fared her with a glare, unhappy to be losing so badly.

They continued. A second War began. Jean claimed Remy's cards with a Jack of Diamonds to his Two of Hearts.

"Do you want to give up," Jean suggested. "Or battle to the bitter end?"

Remy snapped another card down in front of Jean. "To the death," he said.

"W-A-R...War!" Jean said, and her Jack of Clubs swept away Remy's Eight.

Remy had one card remaining. He tapped it with his finger, his eyes issued a challenge. "My hill t'die on," he said. "Let's say, we have a parley?"

"To negotiate the terms of your surrender," Jean said.

"No surrender," Remy whispered, leaning forward. "But I will ask for mercy. If my card is high, we call a draw. Cease fire."

Jean looked at him, pretending to consider. "Alright," she said. She was certain she was about to win.

Remy turned over his card. The Ten of Diamonds. Jean regarded it for a long moment, then turned over her card: The Jack of Hearts. Jean now held all the cards.

Remy stared at her dejectedly.

"Are you ready?" she asked finally.

His expression was grim, his eyes resigned. Jean stood to leave the kitchen. "I'm going to get the briefcase," she said. "Don't run away."

"Did you just read my thoughts?" he called after her with annoyance.

She paused in the doorway and turned to look at him. "No Remy, I know you well enough by now." Jean retrieved the briefcase from the hall closet, where it had been hidden. She carried it back to the kitchen and set it on the table.

"Do you want me to open it, or do you want to?" she asked.

"You do it," he told her.

"Are you sure? This is personal, I understand if you don't want me to-."

He shook his head, his fingers flicking away her words.

Jean unlocked the case; the case they'd carried with them from New York to Boston. They'd left it behind in the safehouse. Gone temporarily, but not forgotten, it seemed. She lifted the lid. There was the laptop and the files she had pawed through when she'd opened it the first time. She reopened the folder with the records concerning the state senator that bore some resemblance to Remy. She flipped through the contents, but on its own, the folder had no answers. She looked at the second folder. It looked as if it had held more paper at one time, but now, it held only three documents. The first was a birth certificate from the State of Louisiana. There was the name of the infant, the date, which was twenty-six years prior, the time, and the location. It was followed by the mother's name. The space for the father's name was blank. Jean stared at the mother's name. She recognized it. It was the woman from the South End apartment. The woman who had been shot in the struggle: Helen Moreux. Jean drew a sharp breath. She sensed Remy's rising alarm at her reaction. Jean placed the birth certificate down with a trembling hand, and picked up the next document. It was a death certificate for the same baby, one that had died mere hours after birth. Cause of death simply stated: congenital defects. Jean's hands shook as she stared at the attending physician's name. Jean placed the death certificate aside. The final document was an agreement, signed by Helen and another, Honoré DesJarlais.

Jean's mind returned to the office where she had struggled with Helen. She recalled the news clippings, the photos, the books on genetic mutation. She recalled the woman's profound sadness. Not the emotions of an insane, bitterly jealous woman driven to murder. The woman wasn't stalking Remy. She was looking for him. Her sadness was loss, not of a lover, but the loss of a child.

Jean took a steadying breath. She consulted the folder about the senator again, confirming his name appeared on both sets of documents. She stared at his photograph, his familiar features. She looked through the files outlining his congressional record, the federal dollars earmarked in the bill he sponsored, funding the program whose name was spelled out on the agreement: Black Womb.

Jean shuddered. "Remy," she croaked. He had his head in his hands, elbows on the table, his gaze focused on the kitchen tabletop. She could feel his fear, his dread. She answered the question he was so terrified to face: "Remy, Sinister is _not_ your father."

He gasped like a drowning man coming up for air. His arms went around himself and he turned from the table and folded forward, a picture of agony. Jean went to him, knelt before him, put her hands on his shoulders, held the back of his head.

"How can you know?" he asked her, talking to his knees. "How can you be sure? The times _he_ said, called me- _son_."

Jean grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. "He's a liar," she hissed. "He's _not_ your father. He thinks he _owns_ you. Because the man-," here Jean's jaw tightened. "Because your biological father _gave_ you to Sinister. He gave you away."

Remy shook his head, eyes closed. "So it's like he said. What de crazy Sinister said. Paid for the privilege, t'be rid of me." Jean laid her arms over his back, kissed the back of his head. She felt tears coming. "Remy, your mother. She was twenty when she had you. She thought you were dead. Found out you weren't. She was looking for you. Remy, she wanted you _back_."

Remy sat up slowly. She glimpsed an expression of misery she'd never seen on his face before, but then it was gone, marshalled into blank composure, his mouth a grim smile.

Jean pressed her hands to her eyes. _What have I done?_ she asked herself. _She had finally found him. And I killed her._

She felt his hands touch her hair, come to rest on her shoulders. "Don't cry, _chѐre_ ," he said. "It's okay. Thank you. Thanks for tryin' to help me." She could feel him tamping down his emotions, shutting them away.

Jean let out a keening wail. "Oh, god, Remy," she said, her hand clasped against her mouth. She stood shakily. "Don't _thank_ me." She staggered away from the kitchen.

"Jean?" Remy called. "Jean!"

Jean went to the door at the end of the hall. She did not want to look at the room, to go inside. She didn't even know that if she were to look out the window, what time or place she might see through the glass. She threw open the door to Jackie's room. Went inside. She felt Remy's presence behind her, less than a foot away. Jean pushed back the soft white draperies, drew up the shade. The child's room filled with light. She looked out the window. There was a courtyard and the back of a matching row house beyond. She looked at the opposite window, the window she'd tumbled through when she'd fled Helen's office. It was a blank, staring eye. Dark, with no window hangings. The other windows looked equally vacant. Jean pressed her hand to her throat, weeping.

She heard a hollow tapping sound from below, and a small tennis ball bounced into sight in the courtyard. A little dog capered after it, claimed the ball with its mouth, then bounded across the flagstones, tail wagging. A teenage boy appeared from below, following the dog. He knelt, clapped, and the dog returned to him to drop the ball at the boy's feet. The boy's back was to them. His hair was dyed a flat black color. He was dressed smartly, a white shirt over dark jeans, designer tennis shoes. Jean stared at the back of the boy's head. Jean recognized the little peach poodle. The back door of the opposite row house opened. A woman stepped onto the small rear landing. Jean gasped to see her. The teen boy approached her and she handed him a large canvas backpack. He hoisted it onto his shoulder while the dog jumped on his legs hoping to resume their game.

Helen bent and picked up the dog, put her hand on the teen's shoulder, and guided him into the house. She cast a final glance around the courtyard, looking at the building where Jean and Remy now stood. She apparently did not see what she was looking for. Jean's stomach fluttered, and she clutched her hands to her belly. The woman looked just the same as when Jean had seen her last. Only she was unhurt. She was alive.

Helen turned back to the house and closed the door.

"Jean?" Remy asked, his hand on her back.

She slowly turned toward him. "Remy...even if...even if your father really was- _him_ -it wouldn't change who you are."

His eyes studied her face. "I suppose it'd change how I'd see myself," he confessed.

" _No_ ," Jean said forcefully. "I wouldn't let that happen."

Remy opened his arms and she moved into his embrace. Jean wrapped her arms around his waist, she murmured into his chest: "I'd remind you of who you are. I wouldn't let you forget."

~oOo~

Jean went downstairs to the newsstand. She was alone. The shop was dark and silent, save for her footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Light from the streetlights outside filtered through the shop window. She paced down one length of the shop, using her telekinesis to set the clocks on the wall ticking. Their pendulums swayed as she passed. The newspapers were neatly folded on shallow shelves to the right of the front door. The center of the shop had a wooden shelving unit that held magazines, books of crosswords and Sudoku, comic books, and paperback novels. The left hand side of the shop had a glass counter. Tobacco, pipes, cigars and rolling papers sat inside the case. The rear of the store, where Jean had emerged, held the shop counter and cash register. A small spinning rack on the counter displayed postcards from around the world. Jean made a slow circuit of the small shop, then returned to the counter. She looked into the rear work area. The room was dark. She looked at the worn wooden countertop. There was a small silver desk bell next to the cash register. There was a handwritten sign taped to the counter under the bell. " _Ring at your own risk_ ," the sign read.

Jean reached out a finger and depressed the bell. It made a long, clear sound that resonated longer than she would have expected. She heard the sound of a footfall in the back of the workroom. A dim light clicked on inside and a narrow rectangle of yellow light spilled into the shop through the partially opened door. The footsteps approached, the floor creaked. The door to the workroom opened fully, and the figure there was momentarily silhouetted in the light.

"Can I help you?" the man asked.

Jean searched his features for some sign of Sinister, or Poppet, or herself. Maybe there was something in the shape of his forehead, the pale skin. Or the curves at the corners of his mouth. His narrow hands, the shape of his chin. Maybe.

"I suppose I'm going to need directions," Jean told him, trying to relay confidence. "To a hospital. In a few months or so."

The Witness took a few steps closer to stand behind the counter. He looked like a phantom in the dim light. What did she know of him as a person? Manipulative, secretive, maybe controlling? Did she have the capacity to comprehend or forgive him, for what had been done to her? Was he even to blame? He didn't seem to be motivated by self-interest. When she brushed his thoughts it seemed he honestly cared for her, cared for Remy.

"I can help you wit' that," The Witness answered, his scratchy voice quiet. "I know just de place."

Steeling herself, she extended a hand in his direction. After a moment, he placed his hand in hers. She pressed his frail fingers in her own, then released his hand. "I was lonely," she said softly. "In the white room."

"You need people," The Witness told her. "You're not like me, like him up there," he gestured to the ceiling. Remy was upstairs in the apartment. It sounded like he might be doing jumping jacks. "It's your power. You're connected to other people. You bring them together."

"You said you do that yourself. Make connections," she said.

He shook his head sadly. "Chance. Coincidence. Random encounters. Not heart connections. Not a bond. _You_ do that. I send people away. You bring people close. Everyone wants your light t'shine upon them."

She hastily wiped her eyes and looked away. "Flatterer," she said. "Charmer."

"I don't lie," he said.

Jean nodded. "Did you...have anything to do with our card game?"

"Hm?" he said obliquely, raising his pale brows. "What makes you think I had anything to do with a card game?"

She reached up her sleeve to extract what she had hidden there. She placed it on the countertop. Jean pushed a playing card across the countertop towards him, revealing the Jack of Hearts.

"Is this your calling card?" she asked archly.

"I confess, I stole those tarts."

Jean was confused for a moment. "Is that...from a poem?"

"I was read a lot of fantasy literature as a pup," he said, shrugging.

Jean glanced upwards. Apparently, Remy was done jumping. She thought he must be in the kitchen now, because all was silent. "Not by him?" she asked and pointed upwards.

"Man can tell a tale," The Witness replied. "Have one of my own. But if you want t'hear the whole story, we're gonna have to start at de beginning."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Jean asked.

The Witness paused, then drew a breath. "Once upon a time, in a magical city, the most beautiful woman in the world fell in love. She gave birth to a little boy, a prince. The evil king thought to take the little prince away to his dark kingdom, so he conspired with a lying serpent to tell the beautiful woman that the prince was dead. That dark, stormy night, the evil king came to take what he thought was his," The Witness stopped, then asked: "D'you know this story?"

Jean nodded slowly. "I think so. How did the prince get away from the evil king?"

"Y'see, that's de thing. It hasn't happened yet. That's where you come in."

"More schemes, Jackie?" she asked.

The older man looked offended. "I don't scheme. Like some cartoon villain, twirling my moustache!"

"Okay, not a scheme. What do _you_ call it?"

"Objective setting," he answered snappily. "It's one of my skills, along with time management."

"That's some résumé. And will you tell me how to accomplish this objective?" Jean asked.

"No, that would spoil the story for myself," The Witness responded. "Free will and all. No telling what you'll do."

"So you won't tell us if we live happily ever after?"

"It's a possibility," he said.

"I suppose I'll have to take that as an answer," she said. "Can you tell me how we're going to get to this magical place?"

"I will make de arrangements," he confirmed, then he paused to consider something. He tapped his finger against his chin. "At the right place, at the right time. Hm…"

"I don't think I like that look," she said. "I can already tell you're going to cause me a lot of trouble."

"Well, _that_ I _can_ tell you," he nodded.

"And what are you thinking now?" she asked.

"I'm thinkin'...about cookies."

* * *

Next: Closing the circle


	48. Closing the Circle

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, Eleven Years Ago**

Jean moved aside on the sidewalk to make way for the tourist group. She felt someone brush against her as they passed, jostling her purse from her shoulder. She was brought up short by a teenage boy who stepped directly into her path. Her canvas grocery bag was knocked askew and an orange tumbled from the sack. Jean was momentarily struck dumb by the sight of the teenage Remy standing before her. She clutched her produce to her chest defensively, while glancing around to see who had nudged her handbag.

"Oops, sorry!" Remy called with a grin that said he wasn't sorry at all. He scooped up the orange and then trotted after the throng of tourists.

Jean was rooted on the spot. She was warned this might happen, but she was unprepared for the encounter anyway. She smoothed her darkened hair, checked her large sunglasses to make sure they were in place. She felt her handbag shift. To her continuing surprise, the young Remy reappeared and caught the purse before it could hit the ground. Jean turned to Remy, a look of irritation on her face. She knew what he was up to.

" _Pardonnez-moi_ ," the boy said, offering up her bag. "Stupid tourists. You nearly dropped this."

The woman's lips parted as she stared down at Remy for a few moments, at a loss for words. He smiled shyly at her and righted the purse strap on her shoulder with one hand while taking her left hand in his opposite.

He nodded at her groceries. "D'you need any help, _madame_?"

"No, I –," she began with a little shake of her head. She was marveling at his familiar features, his charming smile, complete with braces on his teeth. "I'm –."

"Enh, _bien_ , _madame_ ," the boy said with a little bow as he released her hand. "Have a lovely day."

He turned before she could respond and he continued down the sidewalk. Jean watched him saunter along as if he'd done nothing wrong. He was irritatingly adorable. But then Jean felt the space on her finger where her ring used to be.

Annoyed and thinking to reprimand him she called: "Hey, wait –!"

For the briefest moment, Jean snagged the young thief by the back of his jacket with her powers. He stumbled slightly, then she thought better of it and released him. She couldn't risk him recognizing her in the future. In the next instant, Remy was fleeing.

"Remy-," she said, then caught herself. She shook her head with a wry grin. "What am I going to do with you?"

Jean continued her walk home. She turned off the more crowded streets. New Orleans could go from vibrant and lively on one street, to dark and dangerous on the next. Fun-loving and playful, then mysterious and forbidding. The street she walked down now was just as mercurial as the rest. Seedy bars and cash-advance stores, laundromats and gun shops, gentrified high-end restaurants and tourist traps, boutiques selling clothes for dogs and specialized markets with global produce. Jean passed a familiar bodega. The owner, Ms. Muñoz, was setting bright yellow and red cans of coffee in her shop window. They gave one another a wave before Jean entered The Witness' Stand. The bell chimed over the door as she pushed it inward. She was met by the warm scents of printed paper and tobacco. Clocks kept at different times ticked merrily.

Jean stepped behind the counter and into the back room. She found The Witness sitting at a workbench, tinkering with a pocket watch. "How many times are you going to fix that thing?" she asked him and dropped a kiss on his temple.

"I've lost track," The Witness said, and glanced up at her. "Anything...interesting...happen on your way back?"

Jean placed an orange on his workbench. "Aren't you funny?" she said drolly. "As if you don't already know."

"You'll miss me when you go," he said, putting down the watch to pick up the orange. His customary smirk was replaced with something wistful.

"Of course I will," she told him, a tremor in her voice. "We all will. But it's not forever."

"The three of you make a racket up there anyhow," The Witness grouched. "I'll finally get some peace and quiet."

Jean smiled and let her hand trail on his shoulder as she passed him. She went to the door leading to the upstairs apartment. "See you at dinner?" she asked.

"Depends," The Witness hedged, "who's doin' the cooking? Not you?"

Jean made an exasperated sound. "My cooking isn't that bad!" she said and opened the door. "But no. I had grocery duty, Remy is cooking."

"I'll bring a bottle of red," The Witness said, popping a segment of orange into his mouth.

Jean started up the stairs. She paused at the top step to juggle her groceries to her hip to open the door. The door opened before she could reach for the brass knob. "Thank you," she told the boy on the landing. He reached out his hand to take the groceries from Jean's arms.

"Did you bring me an orange?" he asked, looking into the bag.

"I did," Jean began, then stopped, remembering the young Remy snatching her second orange from the street. "Ugh! No! It was stolen!"

The boy's pale red eyes looked up at her with reproach. "I'm sorry, Jackie," she told him. "I have some bananas though." she followed him into the kitchen. Jackie set the bag down on the kitchen table. Remy was at the counter chopping vegetables at a furious speed. He turned without stopping to greet Jean with a smile. The window was open, blowing the scent of herbs into the kitchen.

A radio was softly playing nearby: _"You, who are on the road...Must have a code that you can live by...And so, become yourself...because the past is just a goodbye."_

"I don't like bananas," Jackie complained, rummaging through the canvas bag. He removed a box from a local pastry shop and grinned.

Jean didn't need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. "That's for after dinner," she said sternly.

"Poppa's comin'," Remy said, scraping his diced vegetables into a pot. "Said he'd bring a bottle of wine."

"I'm glad he can make it. But it'll be a tight squeeze," Jean said, looking around their small kitchen.

"Always seems to be room for one more," Remy said. He gestured for Jackie to hand him the block of butter he'd pulled from the canvas bag. "B'sides, special occasions call for celebration. Easter dinner. Jackie's first day of school tomorrow... and my first day of freedom! No more responsibilities!"

Jean cast a glance at Jackie who was glowering at Remy's back. "He's only teasing," Jean told the boy.

"I know," Jackie said with all the irritation a twelve-year-old could muster, which was a considerable amount. "I just don't want to go!"

"I'm bored of this argument," Remy told him. "You sound like a broken record."

"We have been over this," Jean said. "Jackie, it's time. You're doing so well now. You're stronger. No more hospital stays. And Remy and I can teach you only so much."

"The Witness can teach me everything I need to know!" Jackie objected.

"You need to be around people your own age," Jean said patiently. "Make some friends."

"You can't just keep hanging around with yourself all day!" Remy said, gesturing with a wooden spoon. "It's weird!"

"Speaking of which," Jean said. "Guess who I ran into on my way home?"

Remy turned from the pot to give Jean his full attention. A flicker of concern made a small crease between his eyebrows. Jean walked forward and put her thumb on the crease to smooth it. It hadn't been there when they first started this adventure. "I ran into your younger self, or rather he ran into me. And the little thief stole my ring!" She held up her hand to show him her denuded finger.

"Well, it's my ring," Remy replied.

"That you gave me," Jean retorted.

"It was a loan," Remy smiled at her, teasing.

"Is this gluten free?" Jackie asked, sniffing a cookie he'd found.

"Jackie, I said 'after dinner'!" Jean exclaimed.

"Gluten free, sugar free, egg free, flavor free...," Remy muttered. "I cannot wait to be off dis allergen-free diet! Longest. Lent. Ever!"

"Oh, hush," Jean said. "I saw you shoving jelly beans into your face on the sly just this morning. You have no idea how hard it is to find an allergen-free Easter cake. In _this_ decade. Where is my 'thank you'?"

"Thank you, mom," Jackie dutifully said around a mouthful of cookie.

"You all packed then, Jackie?" Remy asked. "Got your medicine and books and what all?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jackie sighed with defeat.

Remy had returned to his cooking. "Don't look so blue, p'tit. It'll be great. It's like Hogwarts! Just switch out 'magic' for 'mutant powers,' 'Quidditch' for 'Danger Room.' It's basically de same thing."

"So what does that make the Headmaster? Not Dumbledore?" Jackie asked.

"Mad-Eye Moody!" Remy suggested and snorted with mirth. "You got one guess for who Voldemort is."

"Stop!" Jean said.

" _There is no good and evil...There is only power, and those too weak to seek it_ ," Remy intoned in Sinister's voice.

"Shh," Jean hissed, "Do not speak his name!"

Remy laughed outright. "But here's de best part, Jackie: no parents! You're free t'make all de bad choices you want!"

"Just don't eat shellfish," Jean warned. "You know what happens when you eat shellfish."

" _Mo-om_!" Jackie protested.

"Oh Lord, I miss shellfish," Remy breathed. He stared into the pot despondently.

"Where are you guys going then?" Jackie asked. "Or when?"

Jean and Remy exchanged a meaningful look. "Oh, just here and there." Jean said airily.

"What are you stealing dis time?" Jackie asked. "The apartment is already full of your junk!"

"It's not junk, for one! And it's not stealing, for two," Remy said. "It's _rescuing_. I mean, we couldn't let _everything_ in the Alexandria library just burn up!"

"Or let Hitler's people destroy all those German Expressionism paintings," Jean added.

"Or every Greek amphorae sink to de bottom of th'Aegean Sea," added Remy.

Jackie shook his head. "Just don't put any more stuff in my room. That Edvard Munch print you _rescued_ is freaking me out."

"All de more reason for our little birdie to fly the nest," Remy said and poured vegetable stock into the pot. Steam rose in a cloud, filling the kitchen with the smells of cooking. "Extra gallery space!"

"If you need us, Jackie. You know how to find us," Jean sat beside Jackie at the kitchen table. "I'm so proud of you, you know."

"Stop," Jackie said, his pale face turning red.

"There's not a smarter, braver, or sweeter boy," Jean said, warming to her theme and taking Jackie by the hand.

"Mom, I'm twelve! And also one hundred and four. I'm not a boy!"

Jean laughed. "You'll always be my baby."

"Who needs a drink?" The Witness asked, suddenly appearing at the kitchen door with a bottle of red wine.

Remy raised his hand. "Me! Me!"

Next to arrive was Jean-Luc LeBeau. Jean greeted him with a kiss. He handed her the bottle of white wine he'd brought. Jean invited him to sit. Another chair had appeared at the table. "I'll have a glass," Jean-Luc told The Witness. "Nothing like alcohol to help make sense of sittin' down t'eat with de adult version of my son, two ititerations of a grandchild, and their lovely death-defying mother."

"Weird," Remy said. "Weirder."

Jean-Luc delivered a comment to Remy about him performing "women's work." Remy replied with a description of Jean's cooking ability, and Jean launched into a verbal tirade against both men.

Rolling his eyes, The Witness passed Jackie a pocket watch, sliding it across the table. Jackie passed The Witness a half-eaten cookie. The two looked at one another and shrugged.

* * *

Next: Taking the plunge, part two


	49. Taking the Plunge Part II

**New York City, New York**

**The Past, Yesterday**

"What are you doing?" Daredevil asked as he began to move forward.

"Celebratin' new beginnings," Gambit said, his arms held outstretched to his sides. In one hand was a bottle, thick glass with a heavy bottom. The other hand held a playing card.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Daredevil told him.

Gambit laughed. "I'm a glutton for punishment," Gambit said over his shoulder to Daredevil, right before he plunged forward off the roof.

Daredevil darted forward, readying his billy club to send it after Gambit in hopes of rescuing him. He didn't need to worry. A champagne cork flew up from below to strike Daredevil in the forehead. Below, the thief seemed to be floating midair, joined now by Jean Grey. She was holding a pair of champagne flutes. They looked up at him, doing a slow pirouette over the cityscape below, held aloft by Jean's telekinetic powers.

"Daredevil," Jean said. "If I knew you were coming, I'd have brought another glass."

Daredevil released the breath he'd been holding. The two mutants settled themselves on the rooftop ledge. "Not amusing, Gambit," Daredevil told him.

"Couldn't resist giving our friend in de red pajamas a bit of a scare," Gambit told Jean.

"Still holding a grudge?" Jean asked. "Even after all this time?"

"Nah," Gambit said, he poured a glass of champagne and handed it to Daredevil. "Bygones and all."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Gambit. I'm still sore from you busting my nose," Daredevil said.

"Ages ago!" Gambit declared and poured Jean a glass as well.

"Sorry, Matt. We made a bit of a detour. Chronologically speaking. It's been...hard to keep track of time," Jean said.

Daredevil sniffed the champagne, wondering if it might contain something stronger than alcohol. "Well, let me bring you up to date. I did manage to track down your assassin," Daredevil said. "There was actually more than one."

"Why does that not surprise me," Gambit said. "Greycrow, yes?"

"You knew?" Daredevil said, annoyed.

"I thought I dreamt it," Gambit considered the confirmation of his suspicions. "Then it was Sinister who ordered the hit. Original Flavor Sinister, is my guess, since he doesn't do his own dirty work. And he meant to kill my double, not me. Because without me, his life'd be pretty boring. Sinister Lite wouldn't send a sniper, he'd prefer to strangle me up close and personal."

"But you said there was another assassin?" Jean prompted.

"Uhm, your ex-wife," Daredevil said to Gambit. "But she didn't actually take the contract. She might have assassinated your assassin."

"Circle of life," Gambit said and tipped the champagne bottle into his mouth. He swallowed and sighed.

"BellaDonna," Jean breathed. "That was her, in Helen's apartment... But Helen didn't want Remy dead."

Daredevil started. "How do you—?"

"I got your message, Matt," Jean said sadly. "I was there."

"But, Jean," he began. "You're not the woman... the intruder?"

Jean nodded. "It was an accident, a terrible accident."

"My God," Daredevil said. "What an unfortunate circumstance."

"Is she...is she all right?" Jean asked.

"Yes," Daredevil confirmed. "She left Boston. To start a new life."

"I'm glad to hear it," Jean said.

To Gambit, Daredevil said: "If you...want to talk to her...I can put you in touch."

Gambit considered this. "Maybe." Jean put her hand on Gambit's arm. "Somehow feels...disloyal. To my adoptive parents. No offense meant t'her, but..."

Daredevil was surprised at Gambit's candor, that he was willing to share his feelings. "Just let me know if you change your mind," he said softly.

Jean shook her head. "I still don't understand why Belle was at Helen's though."

"That's a bit more complicated," Daredevil said, and offered the folder he carried in Gambit's direction.

Gambit waved him off. "I don't have enough champagne for this. Will knowin' what's in there kill me?"

"I don't think so," Daredevil responded.

"How about de _not_ knowing?"

"Not knowing won't kill you either."

"Well, I've had enough mysterious documents t'last a lifetime. Keep it."

"Okay, fine," Daredevil said. "I was warned on multiple occasions about this. Onto Plan B. Plan A was a loss. You're the first pancake."

"If you say so," Gambit said with a shrug. "Look, _Diable_ , it's a school night. Time for good little boys and girls t'get ready for bed."

"And what are the rest of us going to do? I suppose it would be nice to have a night off," Daredevil said and raised his glass. "What were we toasting? New beginnings?"

"New beginnings," Jean and Gambit agreed, and two champagne flutes and a bottle clinked.

After a moment, Gambit said: "Well, now I'm hungry for pancakes."

"I know a place open late," Daredevil said. "And I want to tell you about my date last week. I'm _really_ starting to like spicy food now."

* * *

Next: Mad Eye picks up his new student.


	50. The Last Time

Westchester, New York  
The Jean Grey School  
The Present

"Last time, Logan," Tony Stark said. "This is the last time."

"Last time for what?" Logan asked. He was seated before his computer in his office.

"We have another one of your kids over here," Tony said, leaning close to the camera. His face appeared large on Logan's monitor. "Are you expecting a new student?"

Logan huffed. "Why in the world would he be at Stark Tower?"

Tony leaned back in his chair and shrugged. "He said he, quote," Tony made air quotes with his fingers, "wanted to meet the _real_ superheroes, end quote. Actually, this one is kinda cute. Has a knack for machines. I let him try out a robot."

"Looks like flattery will get you everywhere," Logan scratched his head and sighed. "I'll be there to collect him." He closed the communication link.

"So, it's not a hoax?" Kitty asked hopefully. She was perched on Logan's desk, listening to the conversation. "There really is a new student?"

"Not a hoax," Logan confirmed.

"I told you it wasn't a hoax," Kitty said to Bobby, who was struggling through a pile of bills.

"I'll believe it when I see it!" Bobby responded. "This is just an April Fools' joke! You're going to drive all the way down there and find Thor packed into a JGS uniform. Hunh, what is this?" Bobby mused, looking at a cylindrical package addressed to himself. He unscrewed the top and there was a minor explosion followed by a shower of glitter and snowflake-shaped confetti.

"Robert Drake!" Bobby screamed, spitting glitter. "You're dead!"

Kitty dissolved into a cascade of laughter. "Get this cleaned up, Bobby," Wolverine said tiredly as he paced from the room. "And don't threaten to kill yourself."

An hour later, Logan arrived in the lobby of Stark Tower. Stark employees passed through security, came in and out of elevators, clustered around a coffee station. Tony was speaking with Pepper Potts in the center of the lobby. Occasionally he greeted an employee with a wave. Beside Tony stood a skinny twelve-year-old boy. He had a mop of white-blond hair with the faintest tinge of red in it. There were smoke-colored glasses on his nose. He was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt that had the old Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters logo on it. Around his neck was a blue and bronze striped scarf.

"Morning, Headmaster," Tony Stark said as Logan approached. "Coffee?"

"Just the kid," Logan looked at the boy. "Jean-Jaques LeGrix?" he asked.

The boy nodded. "Jack," he corrected.

"You're in the wrong place at the wrong time," Logan said.

"I'm expecting a delivery," Jack said, consulting his pocket watch and then pointing to the revolving doors of the lobby.

Logan and Tony turned to see Matt Murdock enter a moment later. He was in his business suit and carrying a briefcase.

"Good morning," Matt said, he turned from Logan to Tony.

With a jolt, Logan recalled the security footage he'd seen of Gambit, Daredevil, and the missing Jean clone. "Murdock!" he said. "Where's Gambit? The woman he was with? Where did they go?"

Murdock's eyebrows came together. "Jean?" he confirmed, and Logan's heart leapt. Matt paused. "Well, I mean... I was just with them last night."

"Where?" Logan barked, irritated with Matt's reticence.

"The Manhattan Diner," Matt responded. "Gambit wanted pancakes."

Logan gaped at him.

"From what I gathered, they seemed to be on their way to the school. He mentioned it was a school night."

"And the woman," Logan countered. "Jean? How did she seem?"

"Good," Matt said, considering. "She was troubled. But certainly a lot better than when I'd first run into her. I think she'll be okay."

"You have a spring in your step, Murdock. Am I being served?" Tony interrupted.

"No, I don't have the pleasure," Matt said. "I'm here to meet someone."

"That's me," Jack said. "The Witness sent you."

Matt cocked his head. "You...seem familiar."

"I don't want to confuse you any more than I need to," Jack said. "D'you mind opening the briefcase?"

Matt shrugged and said: "Okay, sure." He unlocked the briefcase, turned it and held the opened briefcase towards Jack. Jack perused it's contents. He picked up a velvet pouch and put it into his back pocket. He picked up an envelope and checked the contents. Jack turned to Logan and offered the envelope.

"This is for you," Jack told him.

Logan looked at the envelope with consternation.

"It's a cheque," Jack said. "A charitable donation to your school in Grant Moreux's name."

"Who?" Logan said, and looked at the cheque. His eyes widened at the sight of numerous zeros.

"A mutant who died at birth," Jack told him. "This money is from his mother. To benefit other mutant kids."

"The cheque is real, Logan," Matt told him. "If you need to get in contact with Ms. Moreux, you can go through me."

Logan was no longer annoyed with his new student.

"Moreux?" Tony muttered to himself. "That's a weird coincidence."

Jack took the folder of papers from the briefcase. "Thank you, Mr. Murdock."

"No problem," Matt told the boy.

"You know that's a lie," Jack responded. "It was a pretty big problem."

"We should probably get going," Logan told Jack, anxious to return to the school. "Professor Pryde has some kind of orientation program set up for you."

"Great," Jack said with no enthusiasm.

"Good luck, young man," Tony said and patted the boy on the back. "Sounds like you're going to need it. Next time you're in the neighborhood, you can test run the Delta model."

"Really?" Jack brightened a bit.

Pepper gave Tony's arm a squeeze. "See, I told you it wouldn't kill you to be nice."

"Mr. Stark, it was a pleasure meeting de brainchild behind much of the enterprise I'll someday head after the Stark/Fujikawa merger," Jack told him.*

"This kid is hilarious!" Tony laughed, shaking the boy by the shoulder. "Such an imagination!"

Logan glanced sidelong at Jack. "Uh, what was your power again? Something to do with chronology?"

Jack resettled his glasses on his nose. "It's complicated."

"Thanks for lookin' after him," Logan said and gave Tony a mock salute, touching two fingers to his forehead. "Murdock, we'll be in touch. This your stuff, kid?" Logan asked and indicated the army green canvas bag at Jack's feet. When Jack nodded, Logan stooped to pick it up.

"G'bye," Jack told Tony, "thanks for making me privy to trade secrets." To Matt he said: "Nice meeting you again." He hustled a bit to catch up with Logan.

When they were out on the sidewalk, Logan said: "This is us," and hauled open the van door. Wolverine tossed the bag onto the floor of the backseat. "You can sit up front if you want. "Where are your parents, kid?"

Jack nodded at him and climbed into the passenger seat. "They're at the school," Jack answered as he buckled himself in. "And probably not happy."

Logan raised a bushy eyebrow in Jack's direction. He pulled away from Stark Enterprise's entry, took the drive down the plaza in front of Stark Tower, and turned onto the busy New York City street. "Make it a habit of disappearing on your folks, hunh?"

"More like reappearing on them," Jack replied. "When they least expect it."

Jack flipped through the contents of the folder he'd been given. Logan glanced at him sidelong while also keeping an eye on the slow flow of traffic. Jack separated a sheaf of files, some kind of contract, and ripped it to pieces. After balling up the remains, he rolled down the window. With amazingly accurate aim, he threw the wadded up paper into a passing garbage can. A passerby dumped the remains of his breakfast in the garbage immediately afterwards. Jack shut the window, opened the glove compartment and placed the manila folder with the remaining files inside. Logan thought it might have been a birth certificate. Jack snapped the glove compartment shut.

"What're you-?" Logan began.

Jack reopened the glove box, and the manila folder was gone. He instead removed a map of New York and opened it.

"What the hell was that?" Logan asked.

Jack said: "That? That was somethin' from a previous chapter. I couldn't figure out how t'get it there in the right order." He tsked, and chided himself with a shake of his head. "Total amateur. I need practice."

"Wha-ah..? What did you throw out the window then?"

"Hm," Jack said distractedly. "See, there's de thing. Those were records pertaining to two hired assassinations. Y'see, my adoptive father's biological father hired an assassin to kill his biological son to conceal the fact he - the biological father I mean - was both having an affair and that his biological son was born a mutant. The biological father feared he was about to be blackmailed and have his political career ruined. The assassin _also_ happened to be the biological son's ex-wife, who was, as it turns out, _also_ employed by the biological father's ex-lover - my adoptive father's birth mother that is - who wanted the ex-wife to murder the biological father out of revenge for letting her believe her biological son was dead. But in reality, the adoptive father of _my_ adoptive father assassinated his adoptive son's birth father. And do you think my adoptive father needs t'know any of this? Does it do him any good? No. He's already got enough daddy issues for a decade-long subscription to _Why Won't Daddy Love Me? Magazine_."

_This kid is nuts_ , Logan thought. "I'm really sorry I asked."

"You should probably take 9A," Jack added, looking at the map.

Logan was shaking his head in an effort to clear it. "But-wha- so did anyone…? I just don't—Never mind! I'm not taking 9A. I know how to get to the place, seeing as how I _live there_ ," Logan growled.

"I'm just sayin' there's an accident on the Parkway."

"Can you just sit there and be normal?" Logan asked. "For at least the hour it takes to get there?"

"Hour and forty five minutes if you take this exit," Jack muttered. "Oh, we're takin' it then. Okay."

After a period of silence Logan finally remarked: "So, from the Big Easy?"

"Mostly."

"Weather's a bit different up here," Logan said.

"Not a big fan of th'cold," Jack said.

"No offense, but it doesn't look like you get out much," Logan observed.

"I have albinism," Jack replied.

"Oh. Erm. Well...the seasons are nice," Logan added awkwardly.

"Small talk is painful," Jack said.

Logan wholeheartedly agreed. They drove for the most part in uncompanionable silence, especially after getting stuck in traffic for forty-five minutes. Jack watched the scenery change from city to suburban. After a while, he removed a loop of string from his pocket and began twisting it into different patterns.

"What's that?" Logan asked, glancing at the boy. "Please don't tell me it's an interdimensional time portal."

"Something t'do with my hands," Jack said. "Keeps me in the present."

They came to the affluent town of Salem Center and finally to the Jean Grey School. Jack watched as they passed the statue in the courtyard, its reflection sliding across the windscreen. Laughter burst from Jack's lips.

"What's so funny?" Logan asked.

"She won't like that," Jack replied.

Logan felt a flash of trepidation. The kid was more than precocious, he was downright enigmatic, eerie even. Probably crazy. Logan pulled up behind a pearly white Lexus SUV in the driveway. "These your folks?" Logan asked.

"That'll be them," Jack responded.

Through the windscreen, they could see two figures seated in the SUV. Though the windows were tinted, they could see the driver was gesticulating wildly. The passenger responded with some angry poking in the driver's direction.

"What're they doing?" Logan asked, mostly to himself.

"Arguing," Jack said, in a tired tone. "Or flirting. It's hard to tell."

Logan stepped out of the van just as the SUV's driver side door opened. The driver emerged, leaned down to peer into his vehicle, and yelled: "Fine then!" before slamming the door. The driver pushed his longish brown hair back from his forehead in frustration and then smoothed a hand down his bearded face.

Logan came to a halt. Once again, it seemed the man before him had changed his appearance. Besides the addition of facial hair, it looked like he was dressed in a less haphazard fashion. Though coordinated, one had to wonder where a man could buy bright pink denim. "Gambit!" Logan shouted.

Remy startled and looked at Logan. "Oh, hey Logan," he said.

"' _Oh, hey Logan_ ,'" he repeated. "Is that all you have to say?! Where have you been? We've been searching-!"

People were emerging from the school front doors. "Welcome!" Kitty announced grandly, her arms outstretched. Then she saw it was Remy. "Oh, you're not the...new…" she drifted off in confusion.

"Gambit! You're alive! Now, you're really in for it!" Bobby said, joining Kitty on the top step. "Hey, did you know your dad was here? He's a badass! Shame _that_ doesn't run in the family!"

Last to appear were Ororo and Rogue. They both looked at the new arrival with astonishment. "Remy, thank the Goddess!" Ororo cried.

Rogue ran down the staircase. Remy had a moment to put up his arms defensively before she crashed into him. He was surprised to find she was hugging him. "Oh," he said, "well dis ain't so bad."

Rogue backed up and punched him in the arm.

"Ow!" Remy clutched his bicep. "Okay, that's more like it."

"You. Had. Us. Worried. Sick!" Rogue punctuated each word with a jab to Remy's chest.

"Hey, c'mon now!" Remy attempted to shield himself from the onslaught.

Remy found himself surrounded, interjections peppering him like gunfire.

"-Sinister's clone in your apartment-!"

"-National news! Bank robbery? You should see the photo of you-!"

"-Said you were homeschooled! Why didn't you just tell-!"

"-Followed down into the Morlock tunnels-!"

"-Phoned you multiple times-."

"-Time-traveled and was really, really sick-."

"-told us you'd attacked Sinister so they could-."

"Help!" Remy called. "Help me!"

The passenger side door opened. For a moment, the voices stopped.

A woman with dark, mahogany-colored hair emerged. She removed her sunglasses to reveal bright green eyes.

"Jean?" Ororo asked, hardly daring to believe it.

"Is it you?" Logan asked.

"Not the most elaborate April Fools' joke ever?" Bobby asked.

"I told you," Remy said to her over the roof of the car. "Just dump it all in their heads and I won't have to _explain anything_!"

"It's me," Jean said, finally. "Sorry my entrance isn't more dramatic. Remy and I decided we'd explain _every_ thing. The normal way," she added in a pointed way.

"No, _you_ decided!" Remy retorted.

Ororo moved around the vehicle to embrace Jean. "You are alive," Ororo said, smiling through her tears. She drew Jean into a hug. "You are home!"

Bobby threw his arms around both women. "Not a hoax!" he cried happily.

Ororo finally released Jean so that Kitty and Rogue could both welcome their friend. "I'm so sorry you had to worry," Jean told them. "I'm sorry I-we-ran away."

"I only got de _one_ hug," Remy muttered.

"There will be time enough for explanations later," Ororo said, touching Jean's face. The two women smiled at one another. "Let us not concern ourselves with apologies."

"Whoo-hoo! I'm off de hook!" Remy declared and raised his arms in victory.

"Don't count on it, bub," Logan said, still hanging back.

"Double-standards," Remy huffed.

"Logan?" Jean asked, turning to him, her hands were twisting together. "Well? Do I pass the sniff test?"

Logan slowly came forward. He looked into her face to study her features, then he finally met her eyes. Jean released her hands and held them out to Logan, almost shyly. Slowly, he took her into his arms. Logan swallowed hard. After a few moments he released her. "You pass."

Jean released a breath she'd been holding. "Good," she said with a smile. "Now. Take down that god-awful statue." She pointed at the statue of herself in the courtyard.

"Told ya she wouldn't like it," a voice said.

The adults turned to look at the young boy.

Kitty looked surprised, then embarrassed. "Oh, my gosh. Our new student! I'm so sorry! You must be..."

"Jack," the boy said.

"Oh, we're goin' by 'Jack,' now?" Remy said in an undertone, his arms folded on the roof of the car, his chin resting on his forearms. "Well, all right then."

"Right!" Kitty said, remembering. "Jean-Jacques LeGrix! Welcome, Jack!"

"It's Jack Grey," Jean said. "'LeGrix' is...Remy's idea of a joke."

"Alias," Remy corrected. "It's an alias."

Eyes bounced from the new student to the recently resurrected Jean Grey like so many ping pong balls.

"Uhm, _what_?"

"But how?"

"He's not-?"

Jean and Remy shared a look. Remy raised his eyebrows. "Told ya, just brain dump 'em."

"Maybe we can-," Jean began.

She was interrupted by a loud sneeze. Jack buried his face in his sleeve and sneezed again. He sniffed. "Ugh, pollen," he said, before emitting a final surprise sneeze. He immediately vanished.

"Where'd he go?" Kitty asked, alarmed.

"Gotta be a new record for losing a student," Bobby observed.

"He'll be back," Remy said, unperturbed. "He always turns up eventually."

Logan recovered the canvas bag from where Jack had dropped it. "Maybe in the meantime, we could have that explanation?"

~oOo~

They were gathered in the conference room. It was a rectangular room with a picture window at the far end. It overlooked the expanse of the back yard. Students were playing a game of field hockey on the grass beyond. The walls were covered in a glossy white wainscotting and built in bookshelves. There was a single monitor on the wall, usually hidden behind a tasteful landscape painting. Snacks and a carafe of water had been arranged on the highly polished conference table. They all sat around the oval table facing one another, like a family. Someone had placed a large stuffed yellow chick at the head of the table, where Charles Xavier might have sat. It was wearing half of an Easter egg on its head as a hat.

"Are you sure we shouldn't be worried about Jack?" Kitty asked, scooting herself closer to the table.

Jean shook her head. She was seated across from Kitty. Remy was seated at Jean's side, staring at the snacks as if he could consume them with the force of his gaze. Absently, Rogue reached across the table and pushed the tray toward him.

"He'll know how to find us?" Rogue asked.

"He has a really good sense of direction," Jean added.

"So, is this like an adoption situation, or…" Bobby trailed off.

Jean looked down at her folded hands. "Jackie is my son. My biological son."

"From the future? Alternate timeline?" Bobby followed up, as if this was commonplace.

Jean shook her head. "No, from the past." She looked up at her friends. "After we-myself and another clone- escaped, I found out I was pregnant. If Sinister would have discovered me..."

"Jeannie can't break out of Sinister's control, if he ever got a hold of her again. So we just popped over to a little hidey hole outside the parameters of time and space for a bit," Remy added. He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth.

Jean put her hand on his wrist, seeming to pass Remy a silent communication. "I had Jackie almost twelve years ago. Or was it twenty-six?"

"How did you...," Rogue asked, looking at Jean. Then her eyes traveled to Remy. "Go back?"

Remy grinned at her. "Turns out she can hotwire my time travel powers, that only kinda sorta work."

"You've been in the past," Logan began with incredulity, "for twelve years?"

Jean shook her head, and let out a humorless laugh. "If it were that easy. Unfortunately, Jackie was born with a heart defect. Among other health problems. He was in and out of the hospital for the better part of eleven years."

"Felt longer," Remy added. Jean poked him.

"Remy and I used the-," Jean began.

"Hidey hole," Remy interjected.

"To stay out of the timeline," Jean continued. "For the most part. We had help...with Jackie. Jack's grandparents, Remy's father and mother-."

"Wait, hold up," Bobby made a T for "timeout" with his hands. He pointed to Remy. " _You're_ the father?"

"Well, dat's an interestin' question," Remy's expression was guarded.

"Remy and I raised Jackie," Jean answered. "Together."

That statement was met with stunned silence.

"You guys are jerks," Remy said finally.

"We do not intend to cast doubt on your abilities, Remy," Ororo said. "It is only a surprising revelation." Her eyes met Bobby's, daring him to contradict her.

"Okay, I think we're almost up to speed," Kitty said, looking from Jean to Remy and back again. "One more question. Does that mean the two of you are a... _thing_?"

Remy leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. He was carefully avoiding both Rogue's and Logan's eyes. "Well, dat's an interestin' question...," he said again.

"In other words," Kitty said. "None of your business."

"Ah, Kitty," Remy said, "I'm glad to hear we're speakin' de same language now."

"We have a story to tell of our own," Ororo began, leaning forward to look past Jean at Remy. "Concerning you."

Remy held up a hand to forestall her. "If it's to do with de mini-me runnin' around, I already know."

"How's that?" Logan asked, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

Remy tapped his head with a forefinger. "Most of it came back t'me in bits and pieces. I thought I was going nuts. Who knew, when you're the nexus of a major time event it would be de trigger to bring back cherished childhood memories."

"You remember? You remember what happened?" Rogue asked.

"Mostly from when I was real little. But from here…? I mean, I recall a lot of teen angst, bein' held captive by a psychopath little girl, lost in tunnels, lots of explosions, gettin' real sick," Remy said. "Then I woke up back in Big Charity. I recollect some, but not all."

"That might be partly mah fault," Rogue admitted. "When Ah absorbed your younger self's powers to return you home, Ah might've taken some of your memories."

Remy gave a little shudder. "You can have 'em!"

"What psychopath little girl?" Kitty asked, concerned. "Only, the younger you was worried about...a girl named Alice?"

Remy held out his hands helplessly and shook his head.

"He doesn't remember," Jean said.

"And you came back here, now?" Logan said.

"Back t'de beginning," Remy said.

"So Jack could go to school," Jean said.

"I am so glad to have you home," Ororo told Jean and took her hand.

"Guess I'll go eat worms," Remy groused. Ororo stood then and crossed behind Jean's chair. She put her arms around Remy's shoulders and hugged him from behind.

"And you, as well, my friend," she assured him.

Jean looked at her reflection in the shiny finish of the conference table. "About that," she began. "I don't know that this is a home for me."

She was met with several objections. "Of course it is," Logan said.

Jean shook her head.

"It's not safe," Remy said. "Sinister could show up and possess her. She doesn't have a choice when it comes t'him."

Logan stood, his hands on the table. "We won't let that happen."

"We've had plenty of time to come to a decision," Jean said, straightening her spine and regarding her friends.

" _We_ decided," Remy affirmed. "That Jackie can stay here and try t'learn t'get along with other people. So long as...where he came from...is a secret. Sinister doesn't know a thing about him. Like for it to stay that way."

"And, you all," Rogue pointed her chin at Remy and Jean. "What're you gonna do?"

Remy gestured to Jean. "She does de steerin', I just paddle."

"We're not planning on making any waves," Jean smiled at him.

"You're funny," Remy told her.

They were interrupted by the sounds from outside. Or rather the lack of sound. The voices and shouts of children at play had been creating a sort of background noise. The sounds seemed to have abruptly stopped. The gathered adults turned to look out the window. It looked as if the scene before them had frozen in time.

"That's mildly abnormal," Kitty observed, peering out the window.

Remy and Jean shared a look. "Looks like Jackie's back," Remy said.

"He'll probably need his inhaler," Jean said and moved to rise from her chair. To Remy she said: "Did you remember to pack it?"

" _Ye-esss_ ," Remy said in a put upon voice. He put out a hand to stay her, then stood. "It's in de front pocket of his bag. C'mon, _chѐre_ , dis ain't my first rodeo."

"I didn't mean to imply anything," Jean told him. "I was just asking."

"Inferring I'm forgetful," he said as he rummaged in the green bag Logan had set by the door.

"Well, you _are,_ " Jean said. "Were you not involved in the conversation we were _just_ having?"

"Henpecked t'death, me!" Remy said as he exited the conference room, closing the door behind him.

"I've had enough of your sexist language!" Jean shouted after him.

"Peck, peck, peck!" came Remy's muffled voice though the closed door.

"Uggh!" Jean growled in frustration, her hands flying up in defeat.

Rogue stood from her chair. "Ah'll just," she said and pointed at the door. "Ah'll...be right back."

The remaining X-Men regarded one another.

"So…," Kitty said, regaining her seat and folding her hands on the tabletop. "Tell us more about - Jack. Do you think he'd like to sign up for any extracurriculars or-."

"Kitty," Logan said, cutting her off. "Do you think now is the time to be discussing class schedules?"

"Well-," Kitty began.

"I know what you're thinking, Logan," Jean said quietly. She fingered the space where her ring used to be. "I know you're trying to make sense of..to come to terms with..." She exhaled suddenly. "Believe me, I have struggled myself. I almost chose...to not...have him. But. He was a part of me, and I'd already lost...a piece of myself. Or thought I did. And I knew him, I _knew_ him, Logan. Before he was even born. Then, I thought I might...give him up. Only he was so small when he was born, and needed so much help."

"I cannot imagine what you must have gone through, Jean," Ororo told her. "I only wish you had come to us for support."

Jean smiled sadly at this. "I appreciate that. I just didn't feel like I could. I wasn't in the right frame of mind," Jean told her. "And I am aware of how this must look to all of you."

"You do not need to offer explanations-," Ororo began.

"I'm not explaining myself. I'm defining myself," Jean insisted, pressing her friend's hand. "I am entitled to do so, before anyone else does that for me."

"Of course, Jean," Kitty said softly. "We wouldn't…"

"I understand human nature, Kitty. I make my own assumptions. My own judgements, about others, myself," Jean looked to each of her friends. "Here I am, once again back from the dead, and immediately involved with a man. I have enough sense to see how pathetic that looks." She did not give them the chance to contradict her. "But I couldn't do it alone, and I couldn't face my closest friends. Remy and I have spent a considerable amount of time together, mostly driving each other crazy," here she gave a brief smile. "We've both spent time trying to reconcile with...who we really are. Let me tell you, raising a child and battling personal demons is not for the faint-hearted. But when someone really needs you, like Jackie did, it gives significant incentive to make peace with your fears. And now I can say I know who I truly am. Remy, too. We have made sacrifices...for other people. I am not trying to make myself seem a martyr. I have no regrets, as far as Jackie is concerned. I can't speak for Remy, if he has regrets or not, but there isn't anything he wouldn't do for Jackie. Or me."

"Thanks for setting us straight," Bobby told her with a kind smile. "You're the master of giving us a good talking to."

"Thank you for your candor," Ororo added.

Jean said: "There is another reason...for me to leave. Sinister-being _part_ of me-literally, physically, so that he can control me, is a problem in itself. But mentally, I have not had my _self_ to myself. To be my own person, outside of having a family, a son, and the X-Men. Remy's learned enough from the mistakes of his past relationships to not make assumptions or demands of me, to not have _expectations_ about who I should be or what I should do. He doesn't define me. But he does provide me with some perspective. I value his experience and his opinion."

"I hope you can make peace with that," Jean told Logan directly.

Logan struggled to meet the challenge of her gaze. "You didn't even give us the choice," he said haltingly. "You could have come home. You could have given us the _chance_ to help you. Instead...you ran. From us."

_From me?_ She heard him wonder.

Jean nodded. "I was scared, Logan. I don't expect you to understand. I didn't run towards fear...like you would have. I ran and I hid. Part of me was scared. Part of me...felt shame. For what happened to me. It took me a while to overcome that, to even realize that. And also...I promised I'd help Remy."

"Help him?" Logan asked. Jean's heart ached to feel the man's unvoiced anguish. To have her back only to lose her again. "With what?"

"It's a long story," Jean answered. "And it's not my place to tell it. Maybe with enough time, and trust, Remy will tell you himself."

~oOo~

Rogue caught up to Remy in the hallway under the staircase.

"Ah've been wanderin' God's green earth lookin' for you, sugah," she told him.

"Didn't mean t'send you on a wild goose chase, _chѐre_ ," Remy responded.

Her eyes flashed in irritation. "You know, Ah really thought you were dead. Ah found your _corpse_ , Remy. The clone version."

"Sorry y'had to see that," Remy said. "Thought I was havin' an out-of-body experience myself when I walked in to find myself dead on de floor."

"You mean, you found a dead body in your apartment, and just _left_?" Rogue asked hotly.

Remy held his hands out. "There was extenuatin' circumstances beyond my control," he said apologetically.

Rogue shook her head and exhaled. "Remy, Ah didn't come after you to get all mad again."

"I seem t'have that effect on women," Remy rubbed the back of his head. "Totally understandable. So what was the reason to come after me, if not to give me a hollerin' at?"

She looked into his face. He had a crease between his eyebrows she didn't remember him having before. But there was something else that had changed. He no longer seemed to have that air of sadness that used to linger in his eyes even when his mouth was stuck in a carefree smirk.

"Ah'm glad you're alright," Rogue told him finally. "Ah was scared t'death for you, for your younger self." She took a breath. "You know Ah love you, still. And Ah am sorry."

"Me too," he answered, smiling. "Thanks for lookin' out for me. I was a pretty cute kid, _ain_?"

Rogue blew air from her lips and rolled her eyes. "You were pretty ornery, is what you were." She paused. "And don't change the subject! You and him both, running away. Remy, are you ever going to grow up?" She smiled sadly to soften her words.

"Unlucky for you, I tend to run 'round in circles. So I always turn up again," he told her.

"You don't usually have a partner," she murmured in response.

He nodded, looked down at the toes of his boots. "S'true. Road seemed pretty rough there, but somehow it was easier to walk. Me and her shared the load. But neither one of us could bear the burden of other people's expectations, or in my case, the lack of 'em." He looked up and gave a self-deprecating grin. "We both balked at the yoke. And no amount of stick or carrot was going to make us go."

"Stubborn as mules," Rogue said.

"Speak for yourself," he told her.

They looked at one another for a long moment, then seemed to come to the consensus that they could share a hug.

Her cheek rested against his chest, his arms around her shoulders. She was glad to feel him alive and whole. "Jean and Scott," here Rogue caught herself, exasperated with the current circumstances that made her have to clarify her words: "The _younger_ Jean and Scott, that is. Said you'd jumped Sinister so they could get away. We thought he had you. That he'd taken you. Ah thought maybe Ah'd never see you again. But maybe that's what you wanted?"

He smoothed her hair and placed a kiss on top of her head."Nah, _chere_. I thought I knew. I thought I needed space. I just needed time."

She pulled back to look up at him. "And how _did_ you get away from Sinister?"

"Keep slippin' outta his hands," Remy told her. "At de last minute."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *XSE series


	51. Monologue with a Monster

**The Jean Grey School, Westchester, New York**

**The Present**

Jack Grey was seated halfway up the cold metal bleachers next to the playing field. Below him, students were running back and forth across the damp grass. The day still held some of its morning chill. In the distance, a faint mist clung to the trees, painting the landscape in grays and blues. Flashes of yellow sunlight danced on the lake's surface. Jack watched a pair of red finches flit overhead. In his hands, he had a length of string, tied into a loop. He was playing a game of cat's cradle, pulling shapes from the string, seeming to tie it together in complicated patterns, only to have it unfurl back into its original shape.

Occasionally, he would look up at the students. It seemed to him that each of them was their own tiny star, with beams of light shining from within. Some students shone more brightly than others, some shone light far into the distance, some glowed. Jackie looked back at his string game. So many possibilities, so much potential, so much light. He saw how their lights crossed over one another, intertwined, or went off on their own.

A slight figure approached from his left, the East. The sun dazzled Jack's sensitive eyes. The figure sat beside him on the bleacher.

"A new student," the figure said. It was a young girl.

It wasn't a question, so Jack let the statement hang in the air.

"Only just arrived," the girl continued. "But from where, or perhaps when?"

"No where. Every when," Jack said, but it was The Witness who spoke through him now.

He felt the girl's stare on the side of his face. Jack removed his glasses and turned to look at her. She was slight, blond, with red eyes. Her face was coldly beautiful. When Jack met the full force of the girl's gaze, he saw her eyes widen. She recognized his features, but not the person.

"Who are you?" she asked. She spoke not with Alice's voice, but Sinister's.

The Witness had been waiting a long time to answer this question. He had a monologue prepared. He pulled a thread and suddenly, there was silence. Children stood like statues frozen on the lawn. Birds hung in the air, mid-flight. The wind ceased to blow. Jack gave a half-grin. "I go by many names...," he began.

"I am named for my grandfather, who is kind and looks to the future. And my great-grandfather, who was cruel and looked only to the past. I have my mother's last name, which is neither white nor black, but somewhere in between."

"I have the name of a child and the name of a man. I have the name I call myself...and the name many have called me...that I do not refute and claim as well, as it's the surname of the man who raised me."

"Some called me a miracle. When my heart failed at four years of age, and science and medicine couldn't save me, a healer woman put her hands on me and brought me back t'life. And some would call me an abomination, because without _your_ meddling, how could I exist?"

Sinister's face rarely expressed emotion. But it was possible there might be fear there.

The Witness continued. "It's more than a little sick, you putting a bit of yourself in every clone...like some kind of...maker's mark."

"When you looked at me, eleven years ago in the basement of that hospital, you called me by your son's name, the name of the very First Man... _Adam_. And while you had a hand in creating me, and a piece of you is in me, you did not _make_ me. You are not God."

At the mention of their earliest encounter in the operating theater of Charity Hospital, Sinister's demeanor shifted. "I'll destroy you," Sinister said with barely restrained fury.

"You've already tried**," The Witness hissed, "and don't think I didn't see _that_ comin'!" He held a ring before him, taken from the velvet pouch in his back pocket. There were three diamonds in the setting, past, present, future. "You can't destroy what has no beginning and no end...And if you _ever_ harm my mother or my father again...I will end your works...then, here, forever...and make your existence one of such misery that you will wish I'd just killed you!"

"You do not have that kind of power," Sinister scoffed.

"Have it. Don't use it. I take my responsibilities very seriously," The Witness replied. "So I stick to the shadows, the sidelines, and keep my head low. But I'd make an excuse for _you_."

"I suppose it is _you_ who believes himself a god."

"Heh, not hardly. Just another poor sinner."

The Witness turned his palm upwards and the ring hung frozen in the air for a moment, spinning slowly in a circle, then faster and faster before it vanished in a flash of light.

"Where did it go?" The Witness asked lightly, in a sort of playful musing tone. "How did it get there? But that's _impossible_! It just goes round and round again."

"Let us pray _. Glory be to the Father, to the Son, and the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end._ "

Sinister's eyes seemed to reappraise the boy that sat beside him.

"Look at me now, Nathaniel Essex," The Witness said. "What would _you_ call me?"

"You are insane," Sinister said finally. "A lunatic."

Jack twisted the threads of his string around his fingers. He held the game up to Sinister. "Put your pinky fingers here," he said, "and pull these two threads."

"I do not play _games_ ," Sinister said.

"You want out of this time bubble, don't you?" Jack said, smiling.

Alice reached out two fingers and pulled as instructed. The criss-crossed pattern in Jack's hands transformed into a pair of X's. He looked at the girl's face through the crossing threads, then released the knot of his cat's cradle and the bubble popped. Time came rushing back in to fill the void, a sudden cacophony of sound and action. Finding herself free, Alice slipped away into a fold in space; a flash of light and the figure was gone.

From across the field, Jack could see Jean and Remy exiting the rear entrance of the school. He could look at his parents and see them as they were and how they would be. He saw Jean as a little girl, bouncing in the backseat of a car, singing along to the music on the radio with her father. He saw Remy, being pushed along on a bicycle by Jean-Luc. Jean and her friend Annie swinging on swings, her red hair flying like a banner. Remy's knee bandaged by his Tante Mattie. He saw Jean and Remy meet as X-Men. Come, and go. Reunite, separate, team up, disband. He saw Jean on their sitting room floor, losing to him at a game of Memory. Playing games of pretend and drawing on sketch pads. He saw Remy at his hospital bedside, reading him a book; he could do all the voices. He saw them seated at the dinner table with his adoptive grandparents, who were leading them in saying Grace. Jack saw Jean and Remy as the adults they were now, somewhat nervous and unsure to find themselves together here in the present and all that entailed with the people around them. He saw them in old age...he saw them die. They shared a common thread, and unfortunately, that one led to Sinister. It tied them together and maybe would rip them apart. Maybe their lights would stay tightly bound, cross again and again, like his cat's cradle, maybe they would bounce off in different directions. Anyway, it wasn't for him to decide.

Jean and Remy stood on the rear patio searching for Jack for a moment, holding hands and scanning the sports field. Jack waved. Once they spotted him on the bleachers, they waved back. He put his glasses back on. The light from them was too bright. It was like staring into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **X-Men Vol. 2 #200. The Witness is gunned down by the Marauders.
> 
> Glory Be, Catholic prayer.
> 
> Glory Be to the Father, to The Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
> 
> Next time: Last chapter...the end and the beginning.


	52. Beginning of the End

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**The Past, Twenty-Six Years Ago**

**That Night**

" _Welcome to the Medical Center of Louisiana...Where The Unusual Occurs & Miracles Happen._"

The thief brushed his fingertips along the smooth marble as he passed beneath those stainless-steel letters mounted on the wall. He was here at Charity Hospital to encounter an unusual occurrence, a miracle, of his own. The thief walked down the semi-darkened corridor, his footsteps silent on the worn green and tan linoleum floor. The hall was lined on either side with yellowed subway-tiles, the gloss long worn off their smooth surfaces. Iron light fixtures let off a low golden glow that reflected on silver railings which curved gracefully around and down stairways. This charming, historic building with Art Deco details had presided over this section of New Orleans since its construction by the WPA in the 30s, serving the university students in their training and the local low-income residents who otherwise would have nowhere to turn for care. The hospital had the busiest emergency-room in the country. Not necessarily a point of pride, as many of the patients brought here were victims of gunshot wounds, suffered from stabbings, or had succumbed to drug addiction. People were taken here at the brink of death; tonight some would die. Tonight, one would live, his future secure.

The hospital was large; one of the tallest buildings in the city. In this section of the building, it was quiet. The thief was some ways away from the chaos of the ER. He paced down halls with the air of a man well-acquainted with his surroundings, drawing no attention to himself in his appropriated attire: nondescript overalls of maintenance and service workers that made him invisible to the hospital staff around him. He carried with him a scuffed metal toolbox, though its contents contained little to perform repairs. Quite the opposite, in fact. The tools inside were intended for breaking-in rather than fixing-up. In this particular case, the thief would be _breaking out_ once his pinch was procured...the precious item stolen from its legal if not rightful owner.

The maternity ward was strangely charged with nervous energy. Clusters of hospital staff gathered and spoke in hushed, excited voices. One of the nurses glanced over her shoulder at the thief and just as quickly dismissed him as if he were not there at all. She resumed her conversation with another uniformed caregiver. Their faces were close in heated conversation, though the thief could read the whispered words on her lips: _it_ _has the eyes of a devil_.

The thief felt a surge of trepidation blossom in his mind as he passed by the window overlooking the newly-born infants. The plastic-walled cradles inside the room were vacant, save one. A cluster of doctors in lab-coats or scrubs hovered over the infant inside, seemingly at an impasse as to what to do next; holding clipboards, scratching heads, pointing accusingly at one another. The thief's eyes quickly assessed each of the doctors, his stomach tightening with nerves. This was a new experience; he'd never been nervous while on a job before. None of the doctors inside the nursery seemed at all eager to physically assess the infant. Instead they hung back, as if the infant before them carried some contagion. The thief would have to act quickly, but not while the child was under such close scrutiny. He knew he had a narrow window of time in which to work.

The thief left the nursery behind and passed through a doorway into a patient's room. A curtain had been drawn across the room's center, shielding the occupants from inquiring eyes. A soft murmur of voices came from behind the curtain. The thief set down his toolbox just outside the curtain, the small sound it made as it touched the floor alerted the room's occupants to his presence. Their voices silenced and the curtain was twitched open slightly as if by an invisible hand. The thief took this as an invitation and slipped behind the curtain.

She was there, as promised. A soft light cascaded down from behind her head, creating a halo of red on her hair. A man stood at her side, his tall form silhouetted against the window behind him. Acid yellow light from the street lamps outside hung in beads on the rain-speckled window. There came a low rumble of thunder. Though they had only just met a week ago, it was if they'd known one another for some time.

~oOo~

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Twenty-Six Years Ago

A Week Before

Jean-Luc was just leaving the sidewalk café when he felt the tell-tale tug on his coat that signalled he was about to have his pocket picked.

_Who would dare?_ he thought, his reaction was instantaneous. His arm snapped back reflexively, catching the wrist of his assailant. Holding fast, he turned to see a young man seated at a café table. In his hand was Jean-Luc's billfold. On his mouth, a smile.

"Sho', but you are quick," the young man said. "You could teach me a thing or two."

Jean-Luc stared at his twin reflections on the lenses of the man's sunglasses. He could see his own face was betraying no small amount of surprise.

"D'you know me, Jean-Luc?" the man asked.

Jean-Luc released his grip on the man's wrist. "I do," he stammered, searching his faulty memory. "You saved me, from Candra, when I was a boy."

The man nodded. "You remember?" he asked. He gestured for Jean-Luc to take a seat across from him. Jean-Luc sat slowly and the man returned the wallet by pushing it across the top of the green painted wrought-iron table.

"I recall some," Jean-Luc said, searching the man's face. In truth, Jean-Luc recalled more than he wanted to admit. "Your name...escapes me."

"Remy," the man replied. He removed his sunglasses, revealing the haunting eyes Jean-Luc saw a hundred years ago.

"But you look just de same. De Elixir of Life…?" Jean-Luc speculated.

Remy raised and lowered his shoulders.

Jean-Luc continued slowly: "I remember that after you saved me, I repaid you with betrayal."*

"Oh yeah," Remy said, and laughed. He rubbed the back of his head. "Now you're makin' _me_ remember!"

Jean-Luc couldn't believe the man could be so glib. "I struck you in de back of de skull and left you for dead. You have no idea how much I have regretted that ill-thought decision. When you offered me such hope for a better..."

"We'll chalk it up to youthful indiscretion," Remy said. "Let's not let our bad decisions define us. What defines us is what we do to set things right."

Jean-Luc closed his eyes and shook his head. With a soft exhalation of disbelief, he replaced his billfold in his coat pocket. "How can I set things right, Remy?"

Remy paused, as if considering. "I was hopin' you might help me," he said finally.

Jean-Luc brought his blue gaze back to meet Remy's black and red one. "Yes," he said simply.

Remy held up a hand, as if to stop Jean-Luc. "Before you agree. Didn't you just say how much you regretted your hasty decision making?"

"Very well," Jean-Luc said. "Tell me what it is I'm agreeing to."

"How about I show you?" Remy asked.

~oOo~

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Twenty-Six Years Ago

That Night

Jean-Luc glanced at the silent form in front of the window, but Remy's expression remained indiscernible in the darkness. The thief could feel the weight of the young man's steady red gaze upon him. The look on the woman's face was kind, grateful. The thief wanted to look into the face of the infant bundled in her arms, to see him whole and well.

"How is he?" Jean-Luc asked.

The woman reached a hand to Remy. The man at her side took her hand and held it, pressing it firmly in an offer of reassurance. "Officially discharged," the woman said. "Doing better. Thank you."

"Is it time...?" Jean-Luc asked her.

She nodded wordlessly.

Jean-Luc walked to the woman and lightly set his hand upon her shoulder. Now the thief could see the baby's face. The infant's tiny arm had escaped the swaddling and rested just under his chin. He had the scrunched-up face of a newborn, not unlike that of a very old man. The baby's eyes appeared wide and watchful, and an odd, pale red color. Jean-Luc's own eyes sought out Remy's. Remy and the infant shared little resemblance; Remy's eyes were a mutation, Jean-Luc had learned. The infant's eyes were the result of a genetic disorder, albinism.

"You'd best get on with it," Remy said.

"You'll find the nursery empty," the woman told him, her voice a whisper.

"You have a few minutes at least," Remy added.

The thief nodded. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out to touch the infant's soft white hair. He just as quickly took his hand away.

"Are you ready t'go home?" Remy asked the woman. She nodded in response.

The thief backed up a few paces toward the curtain before turning to leave. He moved to lift the curtain aside when he felt a flash of heat at his back and the sudden change in atmospheric pressure made his ears pop. He glanced back to find Remy, the mother, and the infant gone.

Quickly, the thief reclaimed his toolbox and left the room to return to the hall.

~oOo~

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Twenty-Six Years Ago

A week before

To Jean-Luc's growing worry, Remy took him to Charity Hospital. Jean-Luc didn't ask why they had come, having patience to trust that Remy would tell him in due time. They walked through the hospital and proceeded to the pediatric ward, then the NICU. Remy was wearing a wrist band which granted him access. The silence on this floor was suffocating. They passed rooms, each with a large observation window to the inhabitants inside. For the majority, each room contained at least one woman, sometimes a man as well, and always a small plastic cradle, more like a capsule, with a tiny infant inside. The hall was dim and silent, save for the constant beep of monitoring equipment and hiss of ventilators.

Remy took him to a room at the end of the hall. He nodded his head to indicate that Jean-Luc should enter. Inside Jean-Luc saw a woman with dark red hair. She was seated in a wheelchair beside the plastic cradle. Her hand was resting on the incubator's surface, as if to touch the tiny creature inside. The infant was under a light, which made him look incredibly pale. Jean-Luc could see the tiny blue blood vessels under the child's skin, which seemed nearly translucent. The baby was very small, and wore nothing but a diaper and a blue and pink hat that looked oversized on his tiny form. He had a number of tubes attached to him, a ventilator. His belly moved up and down with his breathing. There was a large bandage on his chest, over his heart.

Jean-Luc exhaled, saddened by the sight of the baby. The woman looked at him, and though she appeared quite exhausted, she smiled kindly.

Jean-Luc turned slightly to look at Remy. "Is this your wife?" he asked, gesturing to the ring she wore on her finger.

Remy made to shake his head, and looked at the woman. "No," he said hesitantly, "she's my-."

The woman spoke: "Partner," she answered. She looked at the newborn. "And this is Jean-Jacques. But we'll call him Jackie."

Jean-Luc approached the infant. He smiled grimly. "Jacques was my father's name."

"I know," Remy said.

Jean-Luc pulled his eyes from the baby to look at Remy. "And you know he was not a very compassionate man."

Remy nodded. "But his son is."

Still unsure of his purpose, Jean-Luc glanced at the woman again. "And, Jillian? Is it?"

The woman looked at him with surprise, then down at the identification bracelet she wore on her wrist. She covered it with her hand. "Very observant, Jean-Luc," she said. "But this is an alias."

"Will your baby...get better?" Jean-Luc asked her.

"We need a _traiteur_ , a healer," Remy told Jean-Luc. "For baby Jackie."

"Of course," Jean-Luc said. "I could bring someone. I'm sure she would be happy to help. But, why did you need a thief to help you find a healer?"

"No," Remy shook his head. "I should have said. I've already spoken t'Mattie Baptiste. She's on her way. I need your help with something different."

"Explain," Jean-Luc urged.

Remy turned to a nearby table set on wheels and opened a briefcase. The small metal plate on the briefcase said: DENTI. Inside, there was a computer the likes of which Jean-Luc had never seen. There were also several documents. A thick folder of papers. Remy removed them and brought them to Jean-Luc. "My birthday's next week," Remy said, apropos of nothing.

" _Bon anniversaire_ ," Jean-Luc told him, completely confused.

"I mean, the day I'm born. Is next week," Remy said, and handed him a printed duplicate of a birth certificate. Indeed, the date was for the following Sunday. The name read: Moreux, Grant. The mother's name: Moreux, Helen. The space for the father's name was blank.

"Do I look like a Grant t'you?" Remy asked rhetorically.

"Maybe a Cary Grant," Jillian (not Jillian) said. "If only you'd shave."

"Then," Jean-Luc said, looking up from the certificate, "you...must be a time-traveler?"

"Told you you were quick," Remy told him. "I need you to rescue me, Jean-Luc."

Remy handed him two more papers, one with the ominous name "Black Womb" printed on it. The documents stated that the infant, Grant Moreux, was dead. And his remains were now the custody of a government program. There were two signatures on this document, Helen Moreux and Honoré DesJarlais. Jean-Luc knew the latter. That man had no qualms about hiring Guild Assassins. At the bottom of the second document, a death certificate, was the signature of the overseeing physician: a Doctor Nathan Milbury. "What is this?" Jean-Luc said in an exhale, feeling mildly ill.

"Fate worse than death," Remy told him. "Unless you step in."

"You want me to...kidnap you?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Is it kidnappin' if you have my permission?" Remy asked, and pinched his bearded chin in contemplation.

"To steal a baby…" Jean-Luc began, and looked at the small infant in the cradle. He nodded slowly. "I could give you a new name. Hide you with one of de clans. They won't like an outsider, but….mebbe if I tell them some nonsense about a prophecy. Mattie will back me. We'll make up some ceremony. Then they'll accept…"

Remy said: "Just be careful which prophecy y'pick, okay?"

"I'm going to help," the woman who was not named Jillian said. "I can be the lookout."

Jean-Luc gave her an uncertain look. "In your condition?"

"Jean, he's right," Remy said. "You need rest."

She protested: "Remy, after everything you've given up to help me... to keep me away from Sinister, let me do the same for you."

"Whatever I give up, I gain back in spades," he told her, smiling. "Or did you forget my _nom de guerre_?"

"Remy," Jean said, her voice authoritative, "I have _died_ before. I am more than strong enough to help."

Remy sighed. He turned to Jean-Luc. "She's capable," Remy assured him.

Jean-Luc considered. "I will do it."

"I know," Remy said again. "I know I can trust you."

~oOo~

New Orleans, Louisiana

The Past, Twenty-Six Years Ago

That night

It was as Jillian, no, Jean-had said, the hospital staff had mysteriously dispersed. A nurse sat at her station, staring blankly into space as if hypnotized. The thief retraced his steps to the nursery area and entered the room using a stolen security badge. The nursery's lone occupant was fussing in his bassinet, his small sounds of unhappiness were beginning to progress towards true distress. Jean-Luc took up the child and put him to his shoulder. The newborn wore a small bracelet around his ankle; if he were taken from the maternity ward or the bracelet removed, alarms would sound. Jean-Luc disarmed it with a magnetic device. He opened the collar of his overalls and tucked the infant inside. The baby's small round face now pressed against the thief's black uniform hidden beneath his maintenance-man disguise. The infant had the same startled expression on his face as the last child Jean-Luc had looked upon...and dark red eyes.

The thief slipped back into the hall and progressed with purposeful authority towards the nearest exit. He would be slipping out a window of a vacant hospital room and scaling down the white concrete exterior of Charity Hospital, the child carefully held in his arm. From behind him, Jean-Luc heard the chime of an elevator and slow rumble as the doors slid aside. Footfalls echoed down the otherwise empty corridor coming to pause outside of the now-empty nursery.

The thief did not risk a glance backward nor did he speed his step. He could feel a crawling sense of dread across the back of his neck. Two men had arrived at this hospital with the same purpose; to acquire an infant with demonic red eyes. Documents had been signed transferring the baby to his new guardian; that dark presence in the hall behind him. In another life, in another reality, Jean-Luc might have missed his opportunity. The other man might have beat him to the pinch if the thief had not been given the exact date and time of this special child's birth. If the woman hadn't telepathically dispersed the confused medical staff. Jean-Luc possessively tightened his hold on the infant for a brief moment.

The thief was at war with himself, his emotions conflicted. He let himself down from an open window to descend to the shadowed alley several stories below, the rainy weather providing some cover as he scaled the building's facade. The thief spared a glance at the silent baby sheltered under his arm. The infant had pressed his fist into his open mouth, seeking to comfort himself. The thief hated having to relinquish his possession of the baby now. At the same time he knew it was a necessary evil. It was all part of the plan, to hide the baby in a place the child's owner would be least likely to look. The child in his arms would be a boy he would someday be honored to call son, would one day grow into a man to be proud of. As for the other baby, little Jean-Jacques, his future was as yet undecided. So Jean-Luc believed.

It was a night for unusual occurrences and miracles. For now, Jean-Luc LeBeau would have to have patience, because the boy in his arms would have none. He knew that his son would be given all the time in the world...quite literally...but live every moment with immediacy and excited anticipation for what came next. Jean-Luc had already been warned about what he was in for. Knowing this, Jean-Luc smiled and shook his head ruefully.

"That you experience even a fraction of de grief you're about t'cause me, Remy," Jean-Luc wished over the infant's head, his lips brushing over the sparse hair on the baby's scalp. "If it's true what goes around..."

~oOo~

The End and The Beginning

Inspiration and references, the first being the title/song. Remy's refusal to become an Avenger (star-spangled eyes), his disdain for corporate greed, and the question of who's son he really is.

Obviously, he's not a senator's son, but a thief's.

**Fortunate Son – Creedence Clearwater Revival**

Some folks are born to wave the flag,  
Ooh, they're red, white and blue.  
And when the band plays "Hail to the chief,"  
Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord,

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son, son.  
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no,

Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,  
Lord, don't they help themselves, oh.  
But when the taxman comes to the door,  
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes,

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no millionaire's son, no.  
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no.

Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,  
Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord,  
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"  
Ooh, they only answer: "More! More! More!"

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no military son, son.  
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, one.  
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no no no,  
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son, no no no...

In honor of Jean's dad (also my dad):

**Solitary Man - Neil Diamond**

Melinda was mine 'til the time

That I found her

Holding Jim

And loving him

Then Sue came along, loved me strong

That's what I thought

Ya, me and Sue

But that died too

Don't know that I will

But until I can find me

The girl who'll stay

And won't play games behind me

I'll be what I am

A solitary man

Solitary man

I've had it to here

Bein' where love's a small word

Part-time thing

Paper ring

I know it's been done

Havin' one girl who'll loves you

Right or wrong

Weak or strong

Don't know that I will

But until I can find me

The girl who'll stay

And won't play games behind me

I'll be what I am

A solitary man

Solitary man

Don't know that I will

But until I can find me

The girl who'll stay

And won't play games behind me

I'll be what I am

A solitary man

Solitary man

Solitary man

Solitary man

Remy's impetus to leave the X-Men behind, or try to:

**Feelin' Alright – Joe Cocker**

Seems I got to have a change of scene

Cause every night I have the strangest dreams

Imprisoned by the way it could have been

Left here on my own or so it seems

I got to leave before I start to scream

But someone's locked the door and took the key

Feelin' alright – oh ho

Not feelin' too good myself – oh, ho

Feelin' alright

Not feelin' too good myself – oh, ho

Boy you sure took me for one big ride

Even now I sit and wonder why

And when I think of you I start myself to cry

I just can't waste my time, I must keep dry

Got to stop belivin' in all your lies

'Cause I got too much to do before I die

You feelin' alright?

Not feelin' too good myself, little girl

Don't you get too lost in all I say

Yeah by the time, you know, I really felt that way, yeah

But that was then and now, you know it's today

I can't get off so I guess I'm here to stay

Before someone comes along and takes my place

With a different name and yes a different face

What Remy thinks he is, but is not:

**I Am A Rock – Simon & Garfunkel**

A winter's day

In a deep and dark December;

I am alone,

Gazing from my window to the streets below

On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.

I am a rock,

I am an island.

I've built walls,

A fortress deep and mighty,

That none may penetrate.

I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.

It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.

I am a rock,

I am an island.

Don't talk of love,

But I've heard the words before;

It's sleeping in my memory.

I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.

If I never loved I never would have cried.

I am a rock,

I am an island.

I have my books

And my poetry to protect me;

I am shielded in my armor,

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.

I touch no one and no one touches me.

I am a rock,

I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;

And an island never cries.

Traveling the desert:

**A Horse with No Name - America**

On the first part of the journey

I was lookin' at all the life

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rings

The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz

And the sky with no clouds

The heat was hot and the ground was dry

But the air was full of sound

I've been through the desert on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert, you can remember your name

'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

La, la, la, la-la-la, la-la-la, la, la

La, la, la, la-la-la, la-la-la, la, la

After two days in the desert sun

My skin began to turn red

After three days in the desert fun

I was looking at a river bed

And the story it told of a river that flowed

Made me sad to think it was dead

You see, I've been through the desert on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert you can remember your name

'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

Ah, la, la, la, la-la-la, la-la-la, la, la

Ah, la, la, la, la-la-la, la-la-la, la, la

After nine days, I let the horse run free

'Cause the desert had turned to sea

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rings

The ocean is a desert with its life underground

And a perfect disguise above

Under the cities lies a heart made of ground

But the humans will give no love

You see, I've been through the desert on a horse with no name

It felt good to be out of the rain

In the desert you can remember your name

'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

Remy and Jean's song:

**Haven't Got Time For the Pain – Carly Simon**

All those crazy nights when I cried myself to sleep

Now melodrama never makes me weep anymore

'Cause I haven't got time for the pain

I haven't got room for the pain

I haven't the need for the pain

Not since I've known you

You showed me how, how to leave myself behind

How to turn down the noise in my mind

Now I haven't got time for the pain

I haven't got room for the pain

I haven't the need for the pain

Not since I've known you

Suffering was the only thing that made me feel I was alive

Thought that's just how much it cost to survive in this world

'Til you showed me how, how to fill my heart with love

How to open up and drink in all that white light

Pouring down from the heavens

I haven't got time for the pain

I haven't got room for the pain

I haven't the need for the pain

Not since I've known you.

The Witnesses' song:

**Teach Your Children – Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young**

You, who are on the road

Must have a code that you can live by

And so, become yourself

Because the past is just a goodbye.

Teach your children well,

Their father's Hell did slowly go by,

And feed them on your dreams

The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,

So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

And you,

of tender years,

Can't know the fears that your elders grew by,

And so please help them with your youth,

They seek the truth before they can die.

Teach your parents well,

Their children's hell will slowly go by,

And feed them on your dreams

The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,

So just look at them and sigh

and know they love you.

**Citations/References:**

**Why Charity Hospital Was Allowed To Die**  
By Roberta Brandes Gratz  
The Nation. Apr. 27, 2011

As of 2019, Charity Hospital is slated to become homes and retail. I do not know if the "Unusual Occurs and Miracles Happen" slogan will remain on the wall, but I hope so.

Google image search for Charity Hospital and you'll find the operating theater young Remy found himself in. Pretty scary stuff.

Inspo for the Senator:  
Scott DesJarlais/John Edwards  
 **Scott DesJarlais Fined $500 For Affairs With Patients By Michael McCauliff**  
The Huffington Post, October 10, 2015

**John Edwards and the Mistress: A Breakdown of One of America's Most Sensational Scandals**  
ABC News By MARC DORIAN and LAUREN EFFRON November 11, 2013

Inspo for Gambit's moonlighting as an auditor:

**Ex-HSBC boss who oversaw bank as it laundered money for terrorists quits as a minister after scathing report**  
Daily Mail Report, By RUTH SUNDERLAND and TIM SHIPMAN 19 June 2013

See also 2018 Netflix Documentary: **Dirty Money** , Cartel Bank episode

I started this story back in 2012. In 2013, I found out I was pregnant. I delivered my daughter in May, 2014. I had to put this story on hold, partly because I had pre-and post-partum depression, because I couldn't stomach writing about anything bad happening to babies. I always felt bad about not finishing this story. Now it's done and delivered.

Here's some things I was wondering when I wrote this. What do you think? Is Gambit's sexism harmlessly charming? Wildly inappropriate? Is it okay for him to tease and touch Jean because as Gambit thinks "she can take a joke"? Or straight up sexual harassment? I don't believe in white-washing characters. They don't feel real if they aren't flawed. Feel more real if he'd just learn his lesson and make a change himself.

Who do you think Jack's birth father is? Poppet or Sinister? Do you think if Jean had lost the game, she might have come to a different decision? Did Jack do the right thing, calling his mom back and putting her through literal hell? How much should a mother give a child?

Anyway, I hope you read my story a second time, because I hid a lot of foreshadowing and Easter Eggs in it!


End file.
